


the second law of thermodynamics

by fourleafchloe



Series: (i promise) i'll do better [7]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Child Abuse, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Michelle Jones Is a Good Bro, Ned Leeds is a Good Bro, Nightmares, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Precious Peter Parker, Protective May Parker (Spider-Man), Protective Tony Stark, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2019-10-05 22:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17333360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourleafchloe/pseuds/fourleafchloe
Summary: It happens the same way it always does.(It's just discipline. It's not that bad. It's fine, Peter is fine, he'll be fine--)Except he really isn't fine, and Tony knows something's up, and Peter's house of cards is falling apart, and so the story goes.--separate from other fics in the series. a recovery story full of soft irondad, found families, and (eventually) tons of fluff.





	1. when the villains fall (the kingdoms never weep)

**Author's Note:**

> so I was going through a rough patch, and I wrote several thousand words of me projecting my problems onto a certain Peter Parker. 
> 
> as a result this is a deeply personal project for me, but I'm okay sharing it because ao3 is pretty anonymous anyway 
> 
> yes it's the "may's abusive boyfriend" trope, though there are a lot of other elements at play here 
> 
> **!! TRIGGER WARNINGS !!**
> 
> this story has a lot of disordered thinking and reckless/borderline suicidal thoughts and actions. like "I don't _want_ to die but I wouldn't care if I did" sort of thing. the first two chapters contain depictions of child abuse that are very emotional and border on graphic, and while after that it's a straight up recovery fic, there will be mentions of abuse throughout. there is also a SHIT TON of victim blaming, both by the abuser and by peter. 
> 
> also, there are moments when peter is scared tony or may will hurt him. THAT WILL NOT HAPPEN. he's just a bit traumatized 
> 
> there will also be mentions of rape and sexual assault, as westcott is a part of peter's past, and the first chapter contains a scene involving _non-graphic_ sexual assault. 
> 
> please stay safe <3 if you want to skip to the recovery portion of this fic, that starts at chapter 3!! it is a bumpy road but there is plenty of comfort for all the hurt

. 

 

. 

 

. 

 

It happens the same way it always does. The story starts like any other of its kind: the kid isn't expecting it, because he should _never_ have to expect this, and nobody else is looking for it, so of course they don't see.

The thing is, Ben used to do this, too. And of course Peter knew that it wasn't so bad, that it could be worse. That it was just—just discipline. That's all. And if he was bruised, if he was scared, if the fight in his eyes grew sharper because he had no other choice—

If Ben broke all of his promises and Peter learned to accept the punishments anyway, if things escalated farther than they ever should have—

If Ben drank too much and May didn't like it but she never knew, she never, ever knew the extent of it, couldn't have even imagined—

Then it was fine. It wasn't that big of a deal, Peter decided, the first time. He forced himself to believe it. Little eight-year-old Peter believed it, and then he got older, and he still did, wouldn't let himself believe anything else.

Ben died, and Peter told no one that some of the tears he shed were ones of relief. Because Ben was good, he knew this, Ben provided for everything he had, and he could’ve take it all away but he didn't, he _cared_ for Peter, worthless little Peter Parker, even though he never had to, and he was supportive of all Peter's intellectual pursuits, and that made him good. And he missed having that father figure, in a bit of a twisted way—

So those tears, they were tears of grief.

But there was a part of his mind, a traitorous part—that whispered, _the monster is gone._

That was years ago.

The first time.

And Peter makes it through each day. He wrestles with demons he can't begin to describe. Skip is in his head. Ben is in his head. The Vulture, the warehouse, being crushed and _oh god he's dying,_ it's all in there, but somehow Peter fits other things in there too.

The woman who stopped him on patrol to sob out a thank you, because Peter grabbed a car that was dangling off a bridge just the other day, and her husband and three children were in that car.

Every word to Star Wars Episode IV, which he and Ned watch every weekend, an age-old tradition, and recite word for word while they study or build Legos—like an old favorite song that you don't have to think about.

The new web formulas and decathlon questions and all the physics and chemistry that stops his peers dead in their tracks.

Peter's mind is a busy place.

He's doing okay. He is.

Travis shows up and brings it all crashing down around him, and so the story goes.

 

* * *

 

 

A year after the bite, Peter knew he was strong. He'd saved lives, achieved more in that one long year than in his entire short life beforehand.

_When you can do the things that I can do, and you don't—_

He did something, finally, that he had never had the courage to do before. He followed up on Skip Westcott. Found him, found his address.

_And then the bad things happen—_

He followed him for two days. Peter had never told a soul of the abuse and he never would, of that he was certain. But he could stop Skip now. He could save somebody else.

_They happen because of you._

All the dreams he'd had of Iron Man ripping Skip off of him, his hero coming to save him, he could make a reality for some other child somewhere.

And because he could, because he finally could, he knew he had to.

Peter yanked the window until the latch broke. Spider-Man in all his glory broke through the screen and shoved Skip off of the silent, dull-eyed little girl, and he slammed him against the wall, and then—

He could've punched him. Could've kept going until there was nothing left to punch.

But Peter let him fall to the ground, because if he was honest with himself, he wanted to beat the shit out of the guy, but Skip didn't deserve a millisecond of his time. Not a fucking millisecond.

Peter slowly, so slowly walked over to the kid.

She whimpered and flinched back, scrambling for the blanket and pulling it over herself.

Peter wanted to be sick. A Disney princess blanket. A bed covered in cutesy pink sheets. So innocent, and it was all a lie. The horrors that had happened here could never be undone.

(He noticed, in the corner of his eye, the Spider-Man poster on the wall next to the bed.)

“Hey, kiddo,” he said. “It's Spider-Man. I'm not gonna hurt you, okay? And I'm not—I’m not ever gonna let Skip touch you again, okay?”

Only then did the girl begin to cry. She choked out a quiet, “You _came,_ ” and then Peter found himself crying, too.

And that was the end of that story, but it's only the beginning of this one.

 

* * *

 

 

Skip is in jail and Ben six feet under. Adrian Toomes is imprisoned and on Iron Man's watch on top of that.

Travis, however, is none of the above.

Ben and Skip are horrors of the past. Even Toomes is somebody he can put behind him. (Even though his mind refuses to believe that it's over. Even though nightmares haunt him to the point that he can't sleep through the night. Even through all of that—at least his reality is safer now.)

That doesn't apply to Travis, either.

No, Travis is all nice smiles and blue eyes and ruffling Peter's hair. He compliments May with sugary words and looks at Peter with triumph, like it's a battle and he's won. He's all charisma and funny anecdotes, the life of the party, and that's why May likes him. He's all patting Peter's shoulder and grabbing Peter's shoulder and—

And sometimes grabbing him by the arm, too, sometimes dragging Peter closer and spitting angry words. It doesn't really hurt, it's only meant to scare him, and Peter hates it but it works.

Intimidation tactics.

And at first, that's all it is.

May doesn't notice. Doesn't see the way Travis gets a little rough with Peter, almost possessive—the way he'll turn from a long and slow kiss with May and tell Peter he should go get some homework done, dismissive yet commanding all at once. Peter recognizes that tone. It's a tone that says _listen to me or I'll force you to._ It's a tone that says, like Ben used to, _stop crying or I'll give you something to cry about._ And Peter flashes back to raised hands and ice-blue eyes and the _belt, god, not the belt,_ and all Travis has to do is speak with that tone and look at him, and Peter is scrambling to his room and agreeing that he has a lot to get done.

The perfect little yes-man.

So at first it's fine.

Peter is submissive and does his best to do it all right. And if he gets it wrong, comes home too late, then yeah, Travis will get a little angry and might grab him and yell and curse at him, but in the end it's not a big deal.

It's not like it's _abuse_ or anything, Peter reasons. He can deal.

And so the story goes.

 

* * *

 

 

He's spending more time with Tony, lately.

Fridays are workshop days, which always lead into workshop nights, and on some nights when they're really on a roll Saturday becomes a workshop day too and it's noon before they even realize the sun's gone down and come up again.

Peter has a little red access badge, now, and it's excellent. He doesn't show it off at school or anything, but he does get to show it to his teachers whenever he leaves early on Fridays for “internship business.” (It’s not even that much of a lie anymore—on Friday, it really is basically internship business.)

He grins as he walks into the lab one day, seeing Tony hard at work—to the point it doesn't even look like he notices Peter's walked in.

Peter slips through the lab, toward the little workbench in the corner he has claimed for his own. He's been working on the dissolution rate of his web fluid as well as the conductivity—taser webs are nice, but recently he almost died when he hit a telephone pole and he realized that most of the combinations probably need to be insulators, not conductors. He pulls out a few beakers, slides on a pair of goggles, gets to work measuring and combining. He has notes taped up on the wall, chemical equations and molar masses and reminders about things he has tried that have _not_ worked. It's so easy to slip into it, his own little chemist's world, that Peter starts to forget.

He doesn't think of Ben, or Skip, or Travis.

They're there, subconsciously, he knows, but right now he's safe and in control and that's all that matters.

He forgets about Tony, too, for a moment, and that's what does him in.

“Heya, kid,” Tony says, and claps a hand on his shoulder, and one of the beakers drops from Peter's hands and shatters on the floor.

He doesn't know what happens next but he blinks and he's against the wall, arms half-risen to shield his face, and there's shattered glass and aw, shit—

“Mr. Stark,” he chokes out. “Crap, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'll clean it up, I'll—”

_Shit fuck fuck why do you have to screw everything up look you're so fucking dramatic look what you did you little attention whore—_

He squeezes his eyes shut, knowing the words are true but still wishing the voice would leave him alone.

“Hey.” Mr. Stark actually sounds… concerned, and Peter frowns, blinking up at his mentor. “It's okay, kid, you know how much money I have? I'm not worried about a little broken glass. You okay there?”

“I'm… fine,” Peter says slowly. It isn't even a lie. He's shaken up, yeah, but that's normal. He’s been traumatized since he was eight years old.

But Mr. Stark can't even know that much, can he? What's he even going to say? _My aunt's boyfriend kind of reminds me of my abusive uncle and I don't know how to feel about that?_

Mr. Stark is _Spider-Man's_ mentor. He's here for Peter Parker the genius kid, for the superhero side of him, but Peter knows if he starts vomiting emotions all over him, Tony will get tired of him before long.

He doesn't want to admit it, but he's scared of Mr. Stark, too. Even if he _knows_ Mr. Stark would never hurt him like that…

It's hard not to be scared.

Fear, he supposes, can be unreasonable like that.

(And he gets things wrong a lot. As Spider-Man. As Peter Parker. If Mr. Stark finally snapped and hit him one day after a patrol gone south, he doesn't know if he could bring himself to blame the man.)

 

* * *

 

 

“Peter?”

May pushes open the door and leans into his room.

“Hey, sweetie, dinner's ready, okay?”

He grins up at her. “You cooked? And didn't burn the kitchen down?”

She rolls her eyes. “Very funny. We ordered Chinese. Travis's request.”

Peter ignores the way his stomach twists, how in that moment he wants to turn down the offer purely out of spite. He forces himself to keep smiling and says, “Cool. As soon as I finish this problem.”

 

* * *

 

 

Travis doesn't pick a fight at dinner. Or rather, he tries to, but Peter's too good at this game to fire back.

“Looking a little tired, Petey. What, did the stairs wear you out? Or was it pushing the elevator buttons, that leave you out of breath?”

The comments are just shy of blatant. It's textbook passive aggression, really. But it slides right by May's nose under the guise of innocent conversation, friendly banter, even.

“What do you think of dinner, Peter? Show your aunt a little respect, maybe say thank you.”

Peter grips his fork tighter and keeps his head down.

 

* * *

 

 

He just… doesn't like Travis. But May does, oh god, May _loves_ him. It baffles Peter, how she can look at him like that, how his charisma can fool even her.

He pauses and then recalls that Travis fooled him, too. In the beginning, nothing looked this bad.

And then he pauses again, because maybe Travis is fooling nobody, because maybe he has nothing to hide. Maybe Peter's just being an baby and Travis is right about everything he's said—maybe he's not an asshole, just a man who's better for May than Peter ever could have been.

(And maybe discipline was all it ever was, even when Ben took off his belt and Peter became too afraid to move.)

 

* * *

 

 

This time when Peter starts getting hit, he isn’t surprised by it. Not the way he was the first time.

When Travis snaps and Peter’s spider-sense flares up, he flinches back but takes the blow.

( _It’s not that bad,_ he tells himself. _It’s not that bad. It’s not. It’s not._ Travis just backhanded him, it wasn’t a real hit, it’s not like— _it—it could be worse, it’s fine. It’s not that bad. It’s not. It’s not._ )

 

* * *

 

 

“It’s fine,” Travis says the next morning, when Peter won’t look up, can’t bring himself to say anything, just eats his breakfast in silence. When Travis tries to make conversation, puts extra emphasis on how friendly he’s being, and Peter doesn’t know how to say a word. When May admonishes him for being rude. “He’s just a teenager, and I’m the evil stepfather intruding on his life. What more can I expect?”

 _He’s victimizing himself,_ Peter thinks, absently. It’s a familiar tune.

Travis leaves for work. Peter gets up to leave for school, and May puts a hand on his arm and asks if he’s alright. If there’s a reason he won’t speak to Travis.

“I thought you liked him, sweetie,” May says, frowning, and she looks so disappointed that Peter can barely get the words out fast enough.

“I do, May, I do, it’s just—it’s nothing. Bad day. Sorry, I should’ve—sorry.”

May nods, and looks so, so relieved, and it’s in that moment that Peter realizes he will say nothing.

He can’t let May down. He has to be good so that Travis can stay and May can be happy. He knows in that moment that this is exactly what he’s going to do, that his silence is going to trap him, and suddenly the next two years look so much darker than they ever have.

(He never thought he’d have to do this again. Skip is gone, and Ben is gone, but Travis is here. Maybe it’s the universe’s way of telling him he deserves it.)

 

* * *

 

 

Travis, of course, cannot stay silent about Peter’s behavior. He comes home from work just in time to catch May leaving for the night shift.  Peter, who was about to leave for patrol, freezes halfway through getting his suit on when he hears footsteps down the hall.

Travis opens the door just in time to see Peter, fully dressed as normal, opening his laptop at his desk.

Peter’s heart is nearly beating out of his chest. His senses are in overdrive. He feels everything—every movement, every shift. He feels the slight give of the wood as Travis leans up against the doorframe. He hears the man’s breath, hears the way it changes just before he speaks.

Peter tenses, waiting.

“I provide for almost everything you have.”

Travis steps closer. Peter’s staring at the laptop but not really seeing the screen. 

(It's true. Since Travis has moved in, money is suddenly much less of a commodity for the Parkers.) 

“That new jacket? I paid for that. Most of the food in the fridge? I paid for that. All I ask for in return is a little respect.”

It’s like he enters another state of being. A place where he doesn’t really have to live, where he just… exists, and waits for what will come next. His eyes continue to stare, unseeing, at the laptop screen.

It’s the wrong move.

_“Look me in the eye when I’m talking to you!”_

Travis grabs him by the bicep and yanks him from his chair. Peter sucks in a sharp breath, and fear’s got him in a death grip now because he _didn’t see that coming._ Maybe his spider-sense is broken, maybe he’s just so constantly in danger that it doesn’t recognize Travis as a new threat—the point is that Peter didn’t see it coming, and he doesn’t know how to deal with that information. He doesn’t have the capacity to deal with it. Because he’s being slammed up against the wall, and he can’t live in that state of _not here,_ not when he knows he’ll get hit for looking anywhere but those blue eyes.

They’re pale, and cold, and wide with anger in a crazed expression that Peter knows all too well.

It occurs to him, vaguely, that he could fight back.

He shuts that thought down. That’ll only make it worse, he _knows_ that’ll only make it worse. After all, in the end there’s nothing he can do. In the end he’ll have to shut up and submit, because Travis is right.

He’s paying the bills.

(And May loves him, god, she _loves him._ )

 

* * *

 

 

Travis apologizes.

Peter stares ahead numbly and nods, remembering all of Ben’s apologies, all the promises (that he kept breaking) that trickled to a stop as soon as he realized Peter wouldn’t tell anyway.

Travis says all the right things. He doesn’t know what came over him, he was drunk, he doesn’t mean to be so hard on Peter, he’s trying to make this family work, he wants to be a part of Peter’s life, he and May love each other so much, and can’t Peter at least try and let him in?

Twists and turns it so that it’s almost Peter’s fault. And he’s sorry, he’s so sorry, he swears it won’t happen again.

Peter stares ahead numbly and nods. 

 

* * *

 

 

He knows he’s sealed his fate the moment he doesn’t tell. He doesn’t know if Travis remembers backhanding him—must’ve been blackout drunk—but this time. Being slammed against the wall and punched in the stomach. It’s as if they both know, without saying, that a line was crossed.

And the moment May comes home after Travis’s apology and Peter doesn’t say a word, he knows there’s no uncrossing it.

Travis glances up at Peter over his phone, a warning in his eyes. Peter keeps his mouth shut, knowing Travis won’t be so worried next time, because this is all the proof he needs that Peter can keep a secret.

 

* * *

 

 

Travis’s tongue gets looser.

Poetic apologies ride the coattails of manipulative insults, punctuated with a slap, a shove, a backhand.

 

* * *

 

 

if he gives up being human, maybe he could learn to please the man. if he doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat, gives up the suit, keeps the house clean, stays out of their way, never forgets to ask permission, thanks him for everything, spews the man’s praises but stays quiet all the other times, if he is a perfect little china doll, if he is perfect, perfect, perfect, 

 

* * *

 

 

Peter starts doing things like breaking down in school bathrooms. He starts crying more, sometimes for no reason at all. He starts having more panic attacks.

He was never too good with surprise touches. He’s always been such a tactile person, but he needs to know it’s coming.

He needs to _know it’s coming._

When Ned playfully bumps his shoulder in the hallway and Peter doesn’t have the time to brace himself, to tense up and prepare before he can relax into the touch—

It hits him like a bullet train, like the back of Travis’s hand, like the buckle of Ben’s belt, like Skip’s hands gripping his wrists.

It’s everything at once and Peter hates himself but he _shrinks_. He flinches back hard, and of course in the next second he remembers where he is. Of course he sees Ned’s confused face and jumps right back into it like nothing happened, shaking on the inside but smiling everywhere else.

He doesn’t miss the way Ned’s eyes darken with concern, and he spends the rest of the day trying so hard to fix his mistake.

_May loves Travis. You’re worthless and he’s right about everything. He’s paying the bills._

_If anyone finds out what he’s doing to you, they won’t want you anymore._

 

* * *

 

 

He comes home from patrol, one of the few nights he’s able to sneak away, and slips out of his suit and into bed.

 _i’m hungryyy,_ he whines to Ned over text, because he’s found one of the simplest ways to deal with this is by complaining about the little things. Somehow it makes it easier to survive the world falling apart if you can still whine about a stubbed toe.

 _then go eat mr. superhero metabolism,_ comes Ned’s reply.

 _i would lol but i’m too scared to go into the kitchen,_ Peter types, and hits send without thinking. Then he does think, and he realizes what he just said, and his brain short-circuits.

_wait i didn’t mean that_

He winces, realizing that will… probably do nothing to ease Ned’s suspicion.

Peter watches as the little typing bubble appears, and disappears, and appears again. He wonders if throwing his phone out the window would help matters.

_okay may’s cooking isn’t THAT bad peter jeez_

He reads Ned’s text once, then twice. He breathes. His best friend has given him an out without even realizing it.

 _SHE’s GoING to LIGHT EVERyTHING on FI R E,_ he types, and relaxes into the comfort and safety of Ned Leeds, and tries to forget the hunger clawing through him and the man in the kitchen with eyes like Uncle Ben’s.

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey there, kid,” Tony says, easy, smiling. “How was school?”

“Was good,” Peter mutters, hardly thinking about his words. His eyes are out the windows, at the stars, swiveling across the halls, focused on everything that makes the compound upstate different from the tower.

Usually they hang out at Tony’s lab in the penthouse—the only part of the tower he kept—but today Happy picked Peter up from decathlon practice and made the drive upstate, and now here they are.

“Figured we could work on something a little different today,” Tony says, strolling down hallways that Peter is unfamiliar with. He sticks close to the mechanic, figuring getting lost in the Avengers compound would be pretty embarrassing. “You up for helping me fix up one of my cars?”

 _One of his cars._ Peter hasn’t done much with that side of engineering before, and it sounds fun, but—

Intimate.

Out of character.

Fixing up a car together, that’s, that’s a father-son thing. Something kids do in their garage with the man they’ve been calling _Dad_ since they learned to talk. No web shooter combinations, nothing spider-related, just… fixing up a car together. He falters, unsure how to reply.

(It sounds like something he’s wanted for so long but never been allowed to have. How is he supposed to say yes to this?)

“Of course we can spice things up a bit,” Tony adds as they step into an elevator. “Maybe paint some flames on the side. Throw in some repulsors or something—crime-fighting car, it’ll be the next big thing.” His voice doesn’t indicate that anything about this is weird, and Peter relaxes.

“Th-that sounds awesome, Mr. Stark,” he says, a smile spreading across his face.

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey. Kid.”

Tony pokes him with a screwdriver. They’re working in such close proximity, shoulder to shoulder beneath a broken-down Audi, that it doesn’t startle him as much as it otherwise might have. Peter flinches a little, thinks of wide blue eyes and a grip of steel, and briefly hates that Travis can slip through the cracks of this perfect time with Tony—and then he shakes it away, all in the span of a second.

“Yeah, Mr. Stark?”

“You’re doing a great job there, bud, but Karen tells me you haven’t been eating as much as you should. Wanna maybe stop and have a bite?”

Peter sets down his torque wrench. He stares up at the inner workings of the car, feels the black grease coating his fingers, and thinks about a monster getting drunk in the kitchen, biding its time, just waiting for him to slip up. He thinks about becoming a punching bag and when he learned to just accept it, when he finally decided that this was how it was meant to be, that those gleaming sunlit childhoods were for other kids.

“Pete? You in there?” Tony prompts.

“Yeah, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, weary. “Food sounds good.”

 

* * *

 

 

He considers, when Tony pushes six takeout boxes toward him and tells him to eat as much as he needs, that Tony is by all standards _not_ the type to stop working for something like food. Even when Peter is around, they’ll skip dinner and then breakfast and even lunch if they’re in the middle of something.

He wonders what changed.

He wonders if Tony knows the extent of Peter “not eating as much as he should.” If he knows about the dizzy spells, the nights he spends awake, the spots that color his vision while he swings over the city. If he thinks it’s that big of a deal.

Peter figures it’s fine.

Because it’s fine, right?

(At least this way he can avoid some of the bruises.)

 

* * *

 

 

Just before Peter heads home the next morning, Tony sits him down and answers the question he’d been asking himself all morning.

“Alright, I’m gonna get straight to the point,” he says, and Peter’s stomach drops. “Pete, you need to eat.”

“Oh,” Peter says, distantly.

“Yeah, _oh,_ ” Tony says, rolling his eyes. “I know you know what I’m talking about. Super metabolism and all. It’s a big deal, kid. If you’re gonna be out there fighting crime, I need you on your game, not bleeding out begging Karen not to call me because you were too slow to dodge a knife.”

The words aren’t quite angry—he sounds almost scared, and Peter senses that part of this is Tony really, genuinely caring. He’s starting to nod along, to agree, to say something that will quell the mechanic's worry.

But then Tony says, “If you want to keep the suit, you need to respect the rules I—”

And Peter stops hearing anything at all. 

 

* * *

 

_Respect._

 

* * *

 

 

_All I ask for is a little respect._

 

* * *

 

 

_Show me some fucking respect, Peter!_

 

* * *

 

 

_If you would just show some respect, I wouldn't have to do this._

 

* * *

 

 

He is curled up on the ground, shaking.

“Pete, listen to me. Kid. You hear me breathing? I know you can hear it, Spidey, I need you to breathe with me. In, out, nice and deep okay? Breathe, kid. _Breathe._ ”

He feels Mr. Stark's hands, calloused and warm, guide him closer. He is slow about it and oh so gentle. They end up in an awkward hug, and as Peter is slowly able to think, he realizes that Mr. Stark knows him—maybe more than he ever gave him credit for.

Where Tony Stark would avoid all contact after a moment like this, Peter needs it, and Tony _knows_ that.

And he's willing to do it, too. And maybe things really have changed since Homecoming night. Maybe Tony wants something more out of this—something Peter has been aching for.

Peter doesn't cry, but he almost does. He lets himself relax into the hug.

It lasts for precious moments more. Then Mr. Stark pulls away. Looks him up and down. And Peter remembers everything that just happened, why he even panicked in the first place.

(He told Mr. Stark that the black eye and split lip were from patrol last night, and Mr. Stark believed him.)

“You okay now, kid?” he asks. Peter nods, even though his heart is pounding. “Wanna tell me what that was all about?”

Peter shrugs and looks away. His hands are still shaking. Need to get out of here need to go _needtogetaway—_

“Y-you just… reminded me of, of someone. I'm sorry I freaked out on you like that, I, uh, I should get going, I don't want to bothe—”

“Kid, wait— _Parker—_ ”

But Peter's already scrambling away, backpack over one shoulder, ignoring the shame that churns in his stomach as he runs to where Happy waits to take him home.

 

* * *

 

 

He wonders if Mr. Stark would care if he told him about Travis. He wonders if Mr. Stark would care about Skip, or about Ben.

He wonders if May would care. If Ned would.

But lying dormant is the ever-present fear that they would look at him with something akin to disgust. That they would inform him that this is only happening to him because he deserves it, because he really was born to be somebody's punching bag his whole life. That they wouldn't want him anymore, and he'd lose the only people he has.

A part of him isn't wondering, because that's the part of him that _knows_ they would.

It’s why he's never told.

 

* * *

 

 

(He's never been good enough for May. He already knew that. Travis, however, is under the impression that Peter doesn't know it well enough, and resolves to beat it into him at every chance.)

(Peter thinks Travis is probably right. He deserves the reminder.)

 

* * *

 

 

In retrospect, it hasn't taken so long.

Travis has only been in May's life for seven months, in Peter's for five.

He moved in so quickly after they got together—Peter saw the joy in May's eyes and knew, he _knew_ this was all his own fault. He knew the reason May was moving this fast with this relationship was because it was her first serious one after Ben, and all she'd had for so long was Peter, who was more of a burden than anything, and she needed something better. Something free.

And now Travis has charmed her into his life and she loves him, god, she _loves him._

She deserves it. She deserves to be happy and to have something brighter than a reckless orphaned teenager as family. Peter knows Travis better than the man probably knows himself, can read his every move in the same way he learned to read Ben's. This is about control, about feeling better than everyone, on top of the world. If Peter gives Travis this—

This ability to feel powerful—

If he lets him do whatever the hell he wants to Peter, then Travis and May can be happy.

It's the only way this will work. He can't take this away from her, not when she's so happy, so free, so in love.

So when Peter forgets himself and makes a snide comeback late one night and Travis's eyes flash and he undoes his belt—

(This is the only way for May to be happy.)

When Travis grabs his arm and drags him roughly across the living room floor and Peter just _lets it happen—_

(This is the only way for May to be happy.)

When he's scared, he's so fucking afraid, because he remembers being eight years old and afraid of the belt, because it might not be as painful as some of the injuries he gets on patrol but somehow it's so much worse—

(This is the only way for May to be happy.)

When Travis throws him to the ground and growls at him not to move and rips the boy's shirt off and _just starts hitting—_

(This is the only way for May to be happy. This is the only way for May to be happy. _This is the only way for May to be happy.)_

Peter closes his eyes, and he takes the pain.  

 

. 

 

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. 


	2. love brings you flowers (then it builds you coffins)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the response for the first chapter absolutely blew me away 
> 
> to all of my fellow survivors: i love you i love you i love you, you're so strong and you are never, ever, ever alone in this battle <3 
> 
> and just. everyone who commented and left kudos,,, thank you guys all so much for your amazing and kind responses. it's so powerful knowing a story can bring so many people together 
> 
> the warnings for this chapter are all the same as last chapter!! stay safe you guys, love you all <3

. 

 

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 . 

Peter, at ten years old, came to the conclusion that this wasn't normal. 

The discovery was—a lot of things. Profound. Terrifying. He made a joke—something about—he doesn't even remember it now, but it must've been about Ben, about— 

He doesn't know. But it must've been kind of bad, because Ned gave him a strange sort of concerned look and— 

Peter realized, then, that Ned wasn't afraid like he was. He went to school the next morning, eyes open, and saw that  _ nobody _ was afraid like he was. And once he'd seen it, he couldn't stop. He passed people in the halls, heard them talking about their homes and families, and understood that he was alone. That for whatever reason— 

He got hit and they didn't. 

_ (Because that's not for you. Because you don't deserve that kind of happiness. Because you're worthless and this is how it was always meant to be.)  _

And then, only months later, Skip walked into his life. And he said things that made Peter feel so  _ cool, _ so special, like he was worth something after all. 

Skip was so big and Peter was so small. And he wondered if maybe he could feel safe all the time the way Skip made him feel safe, like the Captain America videos at school said kids were  _ supposed _ to feel safe at home. And Peter felt like he could do nothing, but Skip—Skip could do something. 

He gathered all his courage even though talking about it made him feel sick. 

And Peter told his babysitter, in quiet, shaking words, that his uncle called him names and cursed at him and pushed him into walls and hit him, that he  _ didn't _ feel safe at home, that he was supposed to and he didn't. 

And Skip hugged him, but his touch lingered. And then the only person Peter had ever trusted with this held him down and used him. 

Peter lies awake and decides that that must have been the moment he accepted it—that no,  _ no, _ this  _ wasn't _ normal, that every other kid got to feel safe and he  _ wanted _ to and he  _ didn't get that, _ and he'd never get that, because it wasn't for him. He selects the moment in his mind and sets it apart from the others. That, right there, was when he started to fall apart. 

Knowing provides no comfort. 

 

* * *

 

 

Peter swore to himself he wouldn't forget the way Ned held him, that night he collapsed into his best friend's arms, crying because he just wanted to not be scared anymore. 

He swore he'd hold onto the way MJ smiled at him the first time, the realization that she'd been lonely and she wasn't anymore and Peter and Ned really made her  _ happy.  _

People like Tony and May are doing their best, but Peter is afraid of even them, sometimes, because adults have a history of letting him down. 

He's always felt safe around his friends, though. 

He finds himself forgetting anyway, on the worst nights. He's kind of just floating through life. Not running full-speed the way he used to, not even moving with a purpose. 

He's surviving. Day to day. 

There was a time when he insisted that there was a light at the end of the tunnel. He's fallen into the habit of moving forward, and so even though he's all out of  _ purpose _ and  _ why, _ forward is the direction that he drifts. 

There is a child inside of him, the boy he used to be, who believed in everything. Despite it all, Peter can't bring himself to let that little boy down. 

 

* * *

 

 

Fingers brush over soft blankets. He brings his hands up to his eyes, drags his palms over his face. Cracks his eyes open. Sunlight filters through dark lashes. 

He feels, in that instant, so present. So real. It almost hurts to live inside of a moment, after he's spent weeks just on the edge. 

It's a Saturday. Peter didn't go to the tower yesterday. He's been avoiding Tony ever since their last conversation gone wrong. 

He's real enough to feel every inch of the sting on his back, and once he processes this, Peter doesn't want to be real anymore. 

He drifts, and soon, he's asleep again. 

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes up an hour or so later, for real this time, and things are fuzzier. Content to stay like this, where it all feels like a dream, Peter gets up. 

Travis and May have been fighting the past two days. 

He left last night with a slam of the apartment door, and Peter picked himself up off of the kitchen floor and put his shirt back on and tried to pull his broken mind together, fresh stripes carved into his back for the second time in as many weeks. It was so much worse this time—apparently Peter was somehow the cause of the fight, so Travis's rage was, naturally, inconsolable. 

This morning, though, he is the picture of a loving boyfriend, fatherly affection seeping into his every move. He brings chocolate and poetic apologies for May, ruffling Peter's hair and telling dad jokes at each opportunity. He makes dinner. He's perfect, he's kind, and Peter wants to cry. 

_ He's so good to her, _ Peter thinks.  _ He's so good to both of us.  _

It's in this way that Travis's “good days” are almost worse than the fits of drunken rage. When the man who hits him seems so perfect, it's so much easier to believe that it's nothing, that Peter is just being a baby, that he's not allowed to call it something bad, that it’s his fault, his fault, his fault. 

 

* * *

 

 

Ned holds his hand while they study. To keep him tethered. Grounded. 

It isn't anything special. One hand on another while Ned chatters on and on about velocity and relativity and Peter pages through the textbook, contributing thoughts here and there. A little extra contact. A very, very small gesture. 

To Peter, starved for gentle touches, it's far from small. 

But it doesn't interrupt their flow. Studying is normal and Ned chattering on and on is normal and the happy, boundless love he has for his best friend is normal. Ned is Peter's guy in the chair, even when he doesn't mean to be. 

Peter exists in the moment. 

 

* * *

 

 

It gets worse. 

Of course it gets worse. In chemistry, in physics, there exists the Second Law of Thermodynamics: the idea that the universe is so peculiar, so put-together, so  _ ordered, _ it has nowhere to go but down—the reasoning that, as a result, the entropy of the universe is ever increasing— 

It's in this way that things keep falling apart and getting worse. 

And Peter just accepts it, the way a physicist accepts the law, because he's sort of forgotten that there even  _ exists _ any way to go but down. 

May loses her job. 

 

* * *

 

 

The news is jarring. 

Something about the hospital losing funds, needing to lay people off. Peter wants to scream because it's not  _ fair, _ because she's so  _ good _ and she works  _ so hard _ and she needs this job and there is nothing.  _ Nothing _ he can do about it. 

The world falls apart. 

There is the unspoken understanding that their ability to survive now hinges on Travis. 

“May, baby,” he says, holds her as she cries the night she brings home the news, “baby, it's okay, I'm not gonna let you lose everything. We're in this together, okay, honey? You've been working so hard, so I'll keep us afloat until you're back on your feet. It's okay.” 

Peter hides in his room, feeling sick. 

Before, there was always the knowledge that he was doing this to protect May, to keep her happy. 

Now, though, it's like his only way out is a door that's been slammed in his face. He doesn't  _ have _ one anymore. Travis isn't just helping to pay the bills, he's providing for  _ everything.  _

_ Everything.  _

 

* * *

 

 

When Peter comes home too late from patrol a few nights later, Travis uses the same lines he's used so many times before, but somehow it's all worse now that there's more truth behind it. 

“I provide for everything you have,” he snarls, and the words shake Peter to the core because he  _ really is _ providing everything now. Because it's no longer an exaggeration. (Because there is no unspoken “almost” in that statement, the way there was before.) 

He starts on another tirade about respect, backing the boy into a corner, and Peter disappears into his head and isn't sure anymore where reality ends and his memories begin. 

(It doesn't really matter, because he's tearing apart in both of them.) 

 

* * *

 

 

“We're so lucky to have Travis in our lives,” May says, shaking her head as she drops a loaf of bread in the cart. She asked Peter if he wanted to go grocery shopping with her, and the alternative was being left alone with Travis, so here they are. 

“Oh,” Peter says, and swallows, his mouth dry. “Yeah—yeah, we are.” 

“I'm going to be out a lot this week, job interviews and things,” May says. She doesn't even sound that worried about it. “I know I'll get a good job again eventually—if we didn't have Travis, things would be worse, but as it is we'll get by until I've got an income.” 

It takes Peter a long moment to realize she's trying to reassure him. He blinks, dazed, uncertain how to respond. 

_ She really has no idea, does she, _ he thinks, numbly.  _ She's never known. She's never even noticed.  _

“Yeah, don't worry May. I know things'll work out fine.” He grins at her, and she grins back. 

“You know I larb you,” she says, and Peter's stomach twists. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Where'd you get those?” MJ asks him in chem one morning, nodding at the bruises on his wrists. 

“Patrol,” he tells her without having to think. It's kind of not a lie. Patrol is, indirectly, the reason behind it. If he hadn't stayed out so late… 

“Weird place for a Spider-Man bruise,” she says. “Who's fast enough to grab Spidey by the wrists?” 

Peter shrugs and tugs his sleeves down. 

Travis is fast enough, when Peter is exhausted and starving and backed into a corner. 

Travis is fast enough, when Peter knows not to dodge anyway. 

 

* * *

 

 

He sees a poster at school for a hotline. 

**1-800-4-A-CHILD**

Peter stares at it for a really long time before he realizes that MJ is staring, too. Not at the poster. At him. 

Peter ducks his head and keeps moving through the halls, his face burning. 

It's not like anybody can save him, anyway. 

If Travis leaves, everything will fall apart. May's happier than she's ever been, and Peter can't risk her happiness. He  _ can't.  _

MJ walks up to him, concern written all over her face, just before decathlon practice, and Peter knows what she's going to say before she's even said it. He doesn't even bother trying to deny it. 

“ _ Don't, _ MJ,” he snaps, voice hoarse but no less angry. “There's nothing you can do about it, okay?” 

“But—” 

“Just don't.” His voice is trying to be angry, but he knows it comes out pleading, and he sees the way she falters, uncertain. 

He turns on his heel and storms away before she has the chance to recover. It's not like it's the first time he's skipped decathlon practice, so whatever. 

Just— 

Just fuck it all. Whatever. 

 

* * *

 

 

All the things he's doing wrong add up to a lot. 

They weigh on him. 

 

* * *

 

 

_ You deserve it, _ Peter tells himself, next time Travis slaps him hard across the face for talking back.  _ He's right. He's right. You deserve it.  _

 

* * *

 

 

Peter stops noticing the dates flying by, but he does notice the six-month anniversary of Travis moving in, because May bakes a cake and actually doesn't burn it, and Peter can hardly stomach a single bite. 

“We're so glad you've become a part of our lives,” May says. “Meeting you has changed my life, and I know it's good for Peter, having a father figure at home.” 

“Ah, it's no wonder I stuck around. You're the best woman on this earth, don't know how I got so lucky,” Travis says, a twinkle in his eye. 

“Oh, stop it,” May teases, swatting his shoulder, but she's laughing and she's in love and it hurts like nothing Peter's ever known. 

He nods along and laughs at all the right moments. He can't bring himself meet Travis's eyes. 

The man swings his arm around Peter's shoulder, and he's been bracing himself for the contact all evening, but he still shakes apart inside with terror, flinching away just slightly. 

“You okay there, Pete? Didn't mean to catch you off guard,” Travis says. There's a warning in his tone that Peter knows all too well. 

“No, I'm—I'm good,” he says, and smiles for Aunt May. 

 

* * *

 

 

He's younger than he's ever felt and so much older than he should be, all at once. 

He's a lost little kid curled up crying and a withered old man who's seen the worst of the world, all at once. 

He's proven all over again the Second Law of Thermodynamics, because the universe  _ must _ be growing more chaotic by the moment, because the universe  _ must _ be infinitely more disordered if it's a universe where little girls are raped on Disney princess bedsheets and a kid who's supposed to be a hero can't even save himself. 

 

* * *

 

 

He feels like he has crossed some invisible line of  _ this isn't okay _ when he hears a boy in trouble and comes in swinging, and he  _ almost can't save the kid.  _

It's a close enough call with a knife to leave him shaken. He's  _ slow. _ Spider-Man, of course, doesn't look shaken. He walks the kid home and tells him to be careful and swings away, and the boy stares after him, starry-eyed. 

 

* * *

 

 

He's not healing like he should. 

(Probably something to do with the fact that he's not eating like he should, either.) 

He collects bruises in a way that he hasn't since before the bite. Short-sleeved shirts are no longer an option. 

He's dizzy with hunger and at some point Peter realizes he  _ can't _ fight back. 

 

* * *

 

 

_ Incoming call from Mr. Stark.  _

 

_ You have three new missed calls.  _

 

* * *

 

 

_ Incoming call from Mr. Stark.  _

 

_ You have four new missed calls.  _

 

* * *

 

 

_ Incoming call from Mr. Stark.  _

 

_ You have five new m—  _

 

* * *

 

 

Peter scrambles to turn off his phone, fingers trembling.  _ Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. No. No!  _

Footsteps in the hall storm toward him. May is sound asleep, her breathing deep and even in Peter's enhanced ears, and Peter has a sick feeling that she'll stay that way. 

The door slams open. 

“Turn that fucking phone off,” Travis snaps, and Peter kicks it under his bed and backs away. 

“I did, I-I turned it off, I'm sorry—” 

“There are people sleeping in this house. Is that so hard to understand?” Travis grabs him by the collar of his shirt and pulls him closer. “Do you want to wake up your aunt? She works so hard to keep your sorry ass alive—harder than you do, you miserable brat.” 

He backhands Peter across the face, and Peter shuts his eyes tight and forces himself to keep his mouth shut. 

Thinks about how May “works so hard,” according to Travis, when he can use it to insult Peter, but as soon as it's about who provides for everything it's Travis this and Travis that, busting his ass to keep the them afloat while Peter and May do  _ nothing.  _

He remembers the first time Travis said something like that about May—how he'd disparaged her like that—how Peter had gotten  _ so angry, _ how he'd burst out yelling that Travis had no _ idea _ what May had gone through for her Peter, how he had no _ right _ to talk about her like that— 

Peter wouldn't ever forget the look in his eyes. Wide and furious and cold. 

That was the third time Travis had to use the belt. 

But right now, of course, May is perfect. Peter is the source of all the problems. And he woke Travis up, and he could have woken May, and  _ god, he's such a burden, _ and he  _ needs to learn respect— _

(He knows. He knows he's the problem here. He knows it so well it hardly stings anymore when it's screamed at him, when it's hissed in his ear at midnight.) 

Peter doesn't count or catalog the blows, the way he would in a fight. This isn't a fight, he isn't Spider-Man now, and it will be easier to pick himself up afterward the sooner he can forget it all happened. (The memories will come back fragmented, the worst parts finding their way into his nightmares.) 

When Travis lets him go and stumbles drunkenly back down the hall, when he slips back into the master bedroom and pulls the door shut, Peter hears May shift, hears her stir, hears her breathing change. 

“Ev’rything okay, Trav’s?” she murmurs, half-asleep. Peter hears their lips meet and stares at the wall, his gut churning. 

“Yeah, just letting Pete know he should get to bed,” Travis says, and May hums and breathes deep and even, and Peter cries without making a sound, and nothing in the world is okay. 

 

* * *

 

 

(Peter's angry, but in his heart of hearts he's just scared. He wishes Tony would have given up calling before Travis woke up, but maybe it doesn't matter anyway.) 

(If Travis wants to hurt him, he always finds a reason.) 

 

* * *

 

 

He calls Tony back as soon as he's on the subway the next morning. 

He lied awake all night wondering what Tony must've been thinking. If he was worried, or just offended that Peter didn't pick up. If he even cared. 

No—no, he must have cared. He must've, to call  _ five fucking times in a row _ before Peter could get to his phone— 

Peter breathes in deep and calms down. 

Of all the long hours he spent awake last night, he was off-and-on angry at Tony for a few of them. But he's not anymore. 

He could never blame Mr. Stark for what happened last night. 

(He can't blame his heroes for not coming to save him when he is a hero and can't even save himself.) 

“Mr. Stark…?” he says into the phone. A little scared, because he's used to living on his toes. 

“Peter. What the hell was that.” 

“I, uh—”  _ Shit. _ He sounds angry. Peter's already panicking. 

“You're lucky I can keep an eye on your vitals through the phone or I'd have been down there in an instant last night and it would not have been pretty. What was it, teenage rebellion?  _ Homework? _ That why you couldn't pick up?” He's sneering, Peter can hear it, and he remembers, ages ago— 

_ I can't go to Germany, I've got homework.  _

_ I'm just gonna pretend you didn't say that.  _

And—wait. Keeps an eye on his vitals through the phone? That's news to Peter. 

_ At least if Travis kills me, Tony will know about it, _ he thinks—and—whoa. No.  _ No, we are not going there. _ No. 

Peter blinks and clenches his fist at his side.  _ Focus _ . “I-I'm sorry, Mr. Stark, I swear I didn't mean to, I would've picked up, but it was just really late and Travis, he, he—” 

“Wait. Hold up. Travis?” Mr. Stark asks, and Peter flounders, realizing he hasn't ever actually  _ talked _ about Travis before to Mr. Stark. 

Well, shit. 

“Um, well, he's May's new boyfriend—okay, not really new, it's been like… eight months now…?” Peter shifts from foot to foot. Six months living with them, plus the two before Peter knew he existed. 

(Back when Ben was just a nightmare, not a reality brought back to life.) 

Six months is a long time to not say anything. 

But Mr. Stark doesn't sound surprised. “Ah. That guy. Yeah, now that I think about it, May's mentioned him once or twice…” 

Peter blinks. “You talk to Aunt May?” 

“Yeah—we're pretty much co-parenting you, aren't we? Communication has to happen somehow. Anywho. Didn't realize you listened to curfew. Is that a new thing with Travis? You listen to him, but not me, huh? Maybe I need some parenting tips.” And Mr. Stark's tone is light, Peter  _ knows _ he's joking, but his throat still closes up as he imagines Mr. Stark pinning him to the wall, Mr. Stark with his hand raised, Mr. Stark threatening him with the belt— 

_ oh god—  _

It's Tony's voice that brings him back to reality, at least somewhat. “Kid? Still there? You're breathing kind of fast, you okay?” 

“I—yeah,” Peter whispers, ears ringing. “I, um—I should go, I—” 

“Hold up now. You aren't getting off that easy—there's a reason I called you five times last night.” And shit, his voice is hard as steel again,  _ he's angry, oh god, no. _ “You haven't been wearing the suit much. Not only that, your grades are dropping, and it's been almost a month since you've come over for our Friday thing. I wasn't going to make a big deal out of it, but you failed a chem quiz yesterday and I  _ know _ that's your favorite subject and—you know what, I'll just cut straight to the point. I'm worried, kid.” Mr. Stark lets the statement hang there, and Peter breathes, in and out, and tries to make sense of it. “What's up with you?” 

Worried. 

He's worried? 

Peter considers the question. He could laugh at how absurd it is. He almost does. 

_ “What's up with you?”  _

_ Most nights I go home to an asshole who likes to beat on me, but that's nothing new. How about yourself?  _

“I'm just… I've just been so tired, Mr. Stark,” Peter says, because it's not like that's a lie—

And maybe it's more truthful than he realizes, and he must sound so broken, because when Tony rushes to speak again his voice is so much softer. 

“Hey,” he says. “Kid. It's alright. Tell you what—come over tonight, okay? I'll email your teachers, tell them you'll be out tomorrow for an internship thing—I'll call May, too, wire her some money for a date night with the boyfriend, let her know you're staying the night with me. We can work in the lab, relax a little…” Mr. Stark trails off, and Peter holds on to the sound of his words, as starved for a gentle voice as he is for gentle touches. 

He stands, staring at the grimy subway seats. And it's a little crazy, but just that, just the sound of Tony's words—from “it's alright” to “relax a little”—are enough. He almost starts crying, standing there in the middle of a subway car, and he wonders why he was ever trying to avoid Tony when this right here is exactly what he's needed. 

It's everything he's ever ached for and never had. 

It's Iron Man showing up in the nick of time, saving Peter just when he was starting to think he couldn't be saved anymore. 

_ (You don't deserve it. You don't deserve it. You don't deserve—)  _

“Yeah,” he whispers, despite it all, despite knowing he doesn't deserve it. “Yeah. That sounds great.” 

And so the story goes. 

 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> starting next chapter is the recovery portion of the fic!! plenty of irondad on its wayyyy


	3. oh let's be clear, I trust no one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys are so incredible 
> 
> I cannot believe the response this is getting 
> 
> the comments are just blowing me away. you guys leave such attentive and reflective comments that make me so happy to read. just from reading them I feel like this actually means something to a lot of people, and that's powerful 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter!!

 

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That day at school is the longest one he's had in awhile. 

Peter's days have gotten into the habit of flying. This one doesn't. He thinks, absently, during first period AP Stats, about relativity. As though his velocity is a million times slower and so changes the pace of his time, his thoughts race so much faster while his classmates drag on and on and on, and he experiences a hundred years within their hundredth of a second. 

And so a tenth of second feels like a thousand years, and so on and so forth and the moral of the story is that first period  _ never seems to end.  _

(Of course relativity doesn't quite work that way. He knows that. But the day still takes ages to go by, and he's got nowhere better to be inside his mind than making dumb physics analogies for things that don't matter.) 

 

* * *

 

 

Chem is always nice, because things make sense in the lab the way Peter's mind doesn't anymore, because even when the floor's falling out from underneath him, redox reactions and charges can always be balanced. 

 

* * *

 

 

He's going to Mr. Stark's today. And he's not going home, so he'll be at Mr. Stark's tomorrow, too, and he's got a little time and space to be okay between now and the next time he sets foot in the apartment. 

The moments picks up pace a bit by third period, and Peter is having a good day, or some semblance of one. Even if it's slow. He makes a joke that Ned laughs at (so hard he snorts) and MJ almost smiles, which he counts as a victory. 

And then it all goes to shit. 

Because Peter fucking Parker just can't keep his own mouth shut. 

 

* * *

 

 

MJ slams her lunch tray on the table, and Peter flinches back hard. 

“Do you really have to do that?” he mutters. 

“I don't know, do you really have to keep secrets?” she asks, shrugging, as she sits down. 

He rolls his eyes. “What secrets am I keeping? I told you I'm Spider-Man. I told you I'm bi—” 

“No, you didn't, and no, you didn't.” She points a baby carrot at him. “I found out you're Spider-Man because while you may like keeping secrets, you are by no means good at it—” 

“I don't  _ like _ keeping secrets, MJ!” Peter shouts, and his voice breaks, and the tables near them go quiet. Ned stares at him, uncomprehending. 

“...Peter?” he starts, hesitant.

“I don't  _ like _ to, I  _ have _ to,” he hisses as the cafeteria reaches its normal volume again. “I can't let anybody find out I'm Spider-Man, or it'll make May a target and the school a target and  _ you guys _ targets and I can't do that. And I don't even keep the fact that I'm bi a secret, I just don't talk about it a lot—” 

“And this one?” MJ asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“Peter, what's she talking about?” Ned presses. 

“The fact that he's getting hurt at home,” she says. 

“Shut  _ up, _ ” Peter says. 

“Wait—wait. What?” There's a new kind of concern in Ned's gaze, and Peter should stop this conversation now. It's not like MJ has any proof or anything, she's just suspicious and he could easily write her off, but— 

(But people do crazy things when they're scared, and Peter is nothing if not terrified.) 

“So  _ what?” _ he snaps. “Since when do you fucking care, MJ? So Travis hits me in the face and slams me into walls and uses his belt to—to—” 

His hands shake and he stumbles to his feet, unable to meet either of their gazes. He doesn't know what he's saying anymore. 

“Why do you even  _ care?” _

There's thunder in his ears and in his head; his eyes are blurring but he won't admit to tears. Before they can fall, Peter turns, and he runs. 

 

* * *

 

 

there is a sick, sick, twisted feeling in his stomach, because no one was  _ ever _ supposed to know, because he doesn't know what's going to happen now that he's gone and said it and he's so scared and he wasn't supposed to breathe a word and oh god, travis is going to  _ kill him  _

 

* * *

 

 

He pulls himself together in time for class, because— 

Well, he has to. 

Ned sits beside him in history. They're supposed to be working on a—a map? Or something? Of Africa? They're talking about decolonization and the lead-up to World War I, or something like that, and— 

Obviously Ned isn't focused on that. 

“It's nothing, Ned,” Peter mumbles, flipping through the textbook and trying to ignore how empty his stomach is. 

“It's not nothing. You have to tell someone.” 

“No—” Peter's head snaps up, and he feels himself go pale. “No. Ned, don't. Please just drop it, okay?” If he tells and Travis finds out it will get so much worse.  It'll get  _ so much worse.  _

“I can't just—” 

“Please, Ned.  _ Please _ don't tell anybody. You don't—you don't understand, I can't—” 

He breaks off, shakes his head, tries to keep it together. 

“It doesn't even matter,” he says, trying to trace the outline of Nigeria, but his hands are shaking too much to get it right. “I mean, I kinda deserve it anyway.” He laughs a little, and it's meant to lighten the mood, but it kind of does the opposite. 

_ “Peter, _ ” Ned whispers, voice breaking. “Nobody  _ deserves this. _ ” 

“Yeah,” he says, numb. “Nobody except maybe me. If I disappeared—” 

“Peter,  _ no— _ ” 

“Then May and Travis, they'd be happy. They'd be so happy together. I'm only getting in the way. I'm—I'm tearing their relationship apart. I'm causing—so many problems, for both of them—” 

“Peter,  _ please. _ Listen to me.” 

“Travis, he. He provides for everything I have. And I still can't get anything right. Of course he hits me, what else is he supposed to do?” Peter shrugs, keeps his eyes trained on the map. “At least he keeps me around, right?” 

“Peter, he doesn't have the right— just because he—you can't let him keep doing this! This isn't okay, you're  _ hurting! _ ” 

Peter finally glances back up, and he sees, with dull eyes, that Ned is crying. 

“It's not that bad,” he says. And he smiles, even though his heart's all empty. 

 

* * *

 

 

He skips decathlon practice (again) and runs for the first back alley he can find, aching for the thrill of swinging over the city to quiet his mind. 

 

* * *

 

 

“How'd you even know?” Ned asks MJ, once practice is over and the auditorium is empty except for the two of them. 

“He's shit at keeping secrets.” She shrugs. “He can only do it because nobody's looking. And unless they're looking, nobody notices.” 

“But you're looking.” 

MJ's eyes meet his, and there's a strange kind of sadness in them that Ned doesn't know how to process. 

“Of course I am, loser,” she says, but there's no real bite behind it. She shrugs. “Once you've been through it, you can't ever stop looking.” 

And— 

Oh. 

Ned's stomach drops, because suddenly it makes sense in the worst way. 

 

* * *

 

 

Ned walks home alone. He hears somebody shouting about Spider-Man and lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. As long as Spidey's around, Peter must not be home, and that— 

That's a good thing. 

(It shouldn't be a good thing.) 

Ned knows this isn't okay. Peter doesn't seem to know it, but Ned does. He might not know what to do but he does know that this isn't okay. 

(He remembers the older Captain America PSA videos, the ones they made just after the Battle of New York, that they showed when Peter and Ned were smaller. He remembers the one about feeling safe at home, about how if you were in trouble, you should talk to an adult.) 

His finger hovers over the contact. Peter's in danger. Peter's in danger and this is too big for him to handle all alone, whether he admits it or not. 

(They may be older now, but they're still kind of just kids.) 

And this option feels crazy, but he's  _ scared, _ okay, and people do crazy things when they're scared, and— 

And he doesn't know what else to do. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Mr. Hogan, this is Ned Leeds. I'm—” 

“An associate of Peter Parker.” Happy's tone is dry, and Ned can't tell if he's annoyed or amused. “I remember you, spare me the details. What is it?” Okay, yeah, he's definitely annoyed. 

“I, um. Peter's in trouble and I—I don't know what to do about it so I thought—well I thought I'd call you, since I still have your number from the Homecoming fiasco and everything, not sure if you remember that, but anyway—” 

(Ned doesn't hear it, but Happy flinches at the mention of Homecoming. The time he hung up and the kid almost died—oh, he remembers it alright.) 

“Well I guess you can maybe help him? If anyone can? I don't know.” 

Happy sighs, and Ned wonders how he can even begin to explain this. “Hold on, back up. You said the kid's in trouble? What kind of trouble?” 

“The… kind where he's getting beat up all the time… and it's not as Spider-Man?” Ned picks absently at the fabric of his jeans. 

“Listen, Ted, you're gonna need to be more specific—” 

“It's Ned, uh. Sir.” 

“Right. Is it the school bullies again? I thought Tony took care of those kids?” There is muffled conversation in the background, and Ned is not quite sure but he  _ thinks _ he recognizes that voice— 

“Ed? Details,” Happy says. “What's going on?” 

Ned doesn't bother correcting Happy about his name this time. There are more important things right now. “The guy hurting Peter, it's—it's his aunt's boyfriend. That's the person who's, um, who's beating him up.” 

There is a long, aching pause. In the background, someone says something, and Ned  _ swears _ he knows that voice, but— 

“What?” Happy asks quietly. 

“His aunt's boyfriend. Peter said he hits him and—and other stuff.” 

The pause drags on even longer this time. Ned feels how heavy it is, and his stomach twists. 

When Happy finally does speak, it's very, very soft, with the same kind of horror that Ned has been feeling since lunch today. “The kid's being abused.” 

Ned swallows. His throat feels thick, so much so he almost can't get the words out. “Yeah—yeah. That.” 

Another pause, and Ned thinks Happy must be standing up or moving stuff around because there's suddenly a lot of noise on the other end of the line and something crashes and it sounds like— 

Then another voice is on the other end, and Ned almost chokes. 

“What the fuck did you just say?” asks one Tony Stark. 

 

* * *

 

 

Peter pulls off his mask and breathes for what feels like the first time in hours. 

He's standing at the top of the Tower. Karen was asking about the unexplained injuries again today, but he insisted it was nothing and eventually she dropped it. They talked about other things—everything and nothing, like friends do. She's been learning so much—it's nice, knowing he has her, knowing she's always got his back. 

And now here he is, mask off, forever above the world, breathing in the cold air and loving that he gets this chance. 

That he can still have these moments, even when he's going through hell. 

That Mr. Stark is inside waiting for him, not quite like a father but something special all the same. 

That no matter what happens next time he goes home, this is something they can't take away from him. 

He pulls his mask back on after a few seconds and sets about crawling down the wall to swing in through the window. There's one Mr. Stark always leaves open for him, and he's pretty sure it'll still be unlocked. 

“Hello again, Peter. Enjoying the altitude?” Karen asks. 

“You know it,” Peter says. He fires a web and hangs with one hand, using the other to pull the window open. They've talked about decathlon, about web designs, the recent drop in crime in Queens, especially between the hours of eleven and two. For the hell of it, Peter asks, “So how's your day been?” 

“Mr. Stark has considered adding me to your phone. I am not sure what emotions I am capable of, but the idea of being closer to you results in something that may be akin to happiness.” 

Halfway through the window, Peter freezes. 

That's… 

Oh. 

“Aw,” he says. “I love you, too, Karen.” 

He drops to the floor inside the penthouse and pulls the window shut. There's something warm in his chest now that wasn't there before. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Mr. Stark?” 

His suit's still on, but the mask is off. (He knows FRIDAY's recording everything in here, but he trusts Mr. Stark.) 

“Hellooo…” he calls. 

Peter wanders to the lab and steps through the glass doors. That's funny, he thinks. Usually Tony will call out “in here, Pete” or something, to let him know where he is—granted, it's almost always the lab, but still. 

Anyway. No response, and yet here Tony is, messing around at one of his workbenches. 

“Hey, Mr. Stark,” Peter says when he walks in. He drops his backpack on one of the rolly chairs and pulls out his change of clothes—there's a bathroom in the back of the lab, and he usually changes there— 

“Hold up. Kid.” 

Peter pauses. 

There's something… off about Mr. Stark's voice. Peter's mind jumps to all the worst things—nightmares, panic attacks, Titan, he's having one of Those Days, _ he's taking away the suit, he doesn't want you anymore, he doesn't want you—  _

“Yeah?” Peter responds, and hopes he doesn't sound terrified. 

There's a pause that drags on long enough Peter begins to wonder if Tony's going to say anything at all. 

“Did I ever tell you about my dad?” Tony says, and  _ wow, _ that is so far out of left field, Peter's pretty sure they're not even in the stadium anymore. 

“Um… no?” Peter says, racking his brains and hoping that's the right answer. He's pretty sure Tony never talks about his dad. Pepper said something, once, about how they weren't close… 

“Oh. Good,” Tony says. “You don't need to hear that kind of shit from a grown man.” He pauses in his tinkering. He still won't turn around. 

“Mr. Stark…?” Peter asks. “Is everything okay?” 

Tony groans and drops his head into his hands. 

“No, kid,” he mutters. “Why don't you tell me?” 

“Um… what?” Peter's chest is tight.  _ Something's wrong. What's wrong?  _

(He remembers how he'd sensed danger rolling off of Travis in waves, how he'd understood something was wrong right from the beginning but been too afraid to say anything.) 

This isn't like that, but still. 

Something is wrong. 

“Kid. Peter.” Tony still won't turn around, and Peter waits with bated breath, his stomach twisting. 

“I know you're getting hurt. It's—it's May's new boyfriend, isn't it? He's hurting you?” 

The breath leaves Peter's lungs all in a rush. 

_ if you say anything he'll kill you you're weak no one will want you anymore he provides for everything no one will want you  _ **_no one will want you—_ **

“No,” he whimpers. “No.  _ No. _ ” 

He stumbles back, and Mr. Stark finally turns to face him, and god, he's  _ crying.  _

“Kid?” he says, but he sounds so far away, and Peter shuts his eyes tight and clamps his hands over his ears. He feels the tears coming and can't stop them. 

_ he's going to kill you. he's going to kill you oh god  _

Invisible hands grab at him from everywhere, and Peter jerks away, sobbing, and his back hits the wall and suddenly he's not there anymore. 

 

* * *

 

 

(“Once you've been through it, you can't ever stop looking,” MJ said, staring at Ned through eyes that had seen hell. 

_ Once you've been through it, you can't ever stop looking, _ Tony Stark thinks, remembering all those nights when he was little, and Howard came home drunk.) 

 

* * *

 

 

Tony is sitting on the floor holding him when Peter blinks back into awareness. 

“You with me, Pete?” he murmurs. 

Slowly, Peter nods. 

There are tear tracks on his face and his body won't stop shaking, but he's in Mr. Stark's arms, and he's terrified but he trusts Mr. Stark. 

(He remembers Tony promising he'd catch him, on a ship miles above the earth, and Peter fell, and Tony did.) 

(He remembers wishing and wishing, at eight years old and ten years old and twelve years old and just last week, for Iron Man to come and save him.) 

“It's gonna be okay, kid,” Tony says. He sounds broken, and rough at the edges. 

And for the first time in years, Peter stops holding on. 

(He lets himself be held.) 

 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LOVE YOU ALL <333 
> 
> ((also I have a playlist for this fic that's pretty much just my personal recovery playlist and I'm totally down to share that with you guys next chapter if anyone wants/needs it))


	4. just close your eyes, the sun is going down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from "safe and sound" by my girl t-swizzle (though I am VERY partial to the madilyn bailey cover, that girl is an ANGEL)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK (back in the new york groooove) 
> 
> anyway 
> 
> this chapter was hard to write because there were things I needed to get out of my system that absolutely REFUSED to be worded properly 
> 
> but I'm happy with it now!! so I hope you enjoy <3

 

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Tony watches Peter come apart at the seams, and he feels like he's coming apart, too. 

Because god, he was supposed to  _ protect _ this kid. 

But here Peter is, curled up shaking on the ground, just like he did on the floor of the compound a month ago—and so many things have clicked into place since Ned called; the panic attacks, the broken beaker—the lack of eating, how he'd sounded so  _ scared _ over the phone— 

And it's altogether too clear that nobody has been protecting Peter, let alone the hero Tony's supposed to be. 

_ how long has this been going on how hurt are you why didn't you say anything what has that man been  _ **_doing_ ** _ to you, peter  _

He pulls Peter close, the way he did that day at the compound, wondering how on earth he'd failed to see. How he'd convinced himself it was just PTSD from homecoming and from Titan, how he'd been so sure that Peter was on his way to being okay, that he was just hitting a few bumps on the road to recovery. 

But this. 

This— 

Tony never saw it coming, and he  _ hates _ himself for that, because damn it, he  _ should have.  _

He waits until the kid's aware of what's going on—keeps mumbling things like  _ it'll be okay, _ and  _ you're okay, _ and  _ we're okay, _ even though it's not, he's not, they're not. 

Peter lifts his head and breathes, still shaking. 

“You with me, Pete?” 

The nickname feels wrong on his tongue, the fatherly affection misplaced, because what kind of father doesn't protect his kid? 

(The kind Tony knew. The kind Peter knows, too, so it would seem.) 

But Peter responds by resting his head back against Tony's chest and nodding. And maybe things can still be okay after all, because Peter's here, in his arms, and Tony is never letting that fucking asshole touch this kid ever again. 

Eventually Tony stands. Peter's light—too light. He sets the kid on the worn-out couch he's had since college— so stained Pepper won't let him keep it anywhere except the lab—and runs a hand through the kid's curls. 

“We need to talk about this, Peter,” he says, quietly. 

Peter draws into himself further, and Tony's expecting him to shake his head, to bolt, even to lash out. 

But to his surprise, Peter nods. 

He breathes out a soft, “Yes, sir,” eyes downcast, and then Tony understands and feels sicker than ever. 

“Hey, no, no,” he says, sitting down beside him, trying to ignore the way the kid flinches. “None of that. I'm not gonna hurt you, okay? I just—I need to know what's happening, all of it, so I can help you. So we can—we can fix this.” 

Peter's laugh is a brittle, shocking cold. “Yeah, good luck with that.” 

And Tony— 

Tony doesn't know what to say. 

He settles for, “Peter, this isn't okay,” and gets nothing but a shoulder shrug. 

He pauses, backtracks, starts again at the drawing board. Let's see: when he was fifteen and brand-new at MIT and still fairly scarred from everything Howard did to him— 

_ did he believe he deserved it?  _

_ did he think he could be saved anymore? or that he even deserved saving.  _

_ did he care about much of anything, did he care whether he lived or died, whether Howard's hand was the one that did it, whether he ever escaped this—  _

_ or did he not care. had he given up caring by then. was it just another empty part of a life that already felt over?  _

“Peter,” he says, rubbing his hand over Peter's back and hoping to god he's doing this right, “I'm sorry. God, kid, I'm—I'm so sorry.” 

_ all the bitterness he held onto for people like Obie, for even his mother, who'd never saved him  _

“I should've seen it. I should've. I should've saved you before but I didn't and I'm never letting that son of a bitch touch you again, do you hear me? He's gone. He's fucking gone.” There is a moment when he almost lets his anger blind him, but something tugs at his chest, reminding him.  _ the kid.  _

“You're safe, Peter,” he says. And maybe it's the way he says the kid's name, or just those two words— _ you're safe _ —that Tony kept wishing and aching to hear, all through that cracked and jagged childhood. 

Peter starts to cry. 

He cries, and he leans into Tony, who is remembering (with a sickness in his stomach) that the worst scars Howard left him weren't the ones on his body. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Please don't make me go back,” Peter says in a cracked voice, gripping Tony's sleeve. “Please. Please don't make me go back.” 

Tony's heart jumps in his chest.  _ God, this kid.  _

“I won't,” he says. “I won't, Peter.” 

 

* * *

 

 

Eventually, Peter falls asleep, face still stained with tears, and with a heartbroken sort of fury Tony calls the fucking police. 

 

* * *

 

 

The next few days pass in a blur. 

May is hysterical. Peter only knows that because Tony's told him so, because however much he loves her,  _ and he loves her so, so, much—he'd do anything for her, and fuck, he's been living through hell just to protect her, all this time—  _

Peter hates himself for it, but he can't talk to her. 

He can't. 

He _ can't.  _

When Tony handed him the phone after breaking the news about what Travis had been doing to their kid— 

Peter stared at it like it would burn him, jerking away and shaking his head. 

“I—don't want to,” he whispered, realizing only in that moment that it was true. 

“I can't,” he said, desperation awakening in him as he stumbled back further. “I'm sorry, sorry, I—” 

“Kid,” Tony said, softly. “It's okay.” 

He ended the call. 

Peter's gut twisted, realizing May had probably heard their whole exchange— 

And flash forward to a few days later, he's still hiding, alone and afraid in Tony's lab. Curled up, most days, on the stained old couch. 

He feels safe here. Tony hasn't made him leave, so he won't. 

 

* * *

 

 

He's afraid of May. 

He's afraid of her, and he's a thousand kinds of hurt, and he doesn't know how to look her in the eye after she let that happen. Because he hates himself for it but—but a part of him blames her. Even resents her, just a little, because how— 

How could she have not seen it? 

But mostly—mostly he's just afraid, and mostly he just blames himself. Because she didn't know, but  _ he _ knew, Peter knew exactly what was going on and how wrong it was and he just let it happen anyway. (He's  _ Spider-Man _ and still he let it happen.) 

He wonders if she'll want him, after this. 

He wonders if Tony wants him. If anybody does, or if he's just here in the interim, waiting to be shipped off somewhere far away, where no one will have to deal with him ever again. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey there, kiddo.” 

Tony walks in, and Peter keeps staring at the wall. 

Just like he has been for the past six hours. 

He looks, but he doesn't see. He's somewhere else inside his mind and content to stay here. 

He hardly registers Tony sitting down beside him. 

There's a pause. A heavy sigh. The springs rattle as Tony shifts, and Peter stares and stares at the wall. 

“Kid, come on,” Tony says. “You have to come out of here sometime. Can't stay holed up forever. Believe me, I've tried.” 

Peter stares at the wall and doesn't say a word. 

Tony rests a hand on his back, hesitant. Peter flinches away—he knows Tony won't hurt him, but. The stripes carved into his back. The, the belt marks. They still hurt. 

Tony sighs again. The springs creak as he stands. 

He walks out of the lab, and Peter stares and stares at the wall. 

 

* * *

 

 

He smells something good in the kitchen—no, not just good. It's—home. 

Peter slips out of the lab and heads down the hall. 

He sits on one of the bar stools, resting his chin in his hands. May and Tony haven't noticed him yet, exchanging banter as Tony's horrific cooking skills (Peter’s heard tell of the infamous omelette) collide with May's best attempts at Italian. 

“No, that's not how you make it—” 

“You can't even cook, Stark, who are you to—” 

“Yeah, but my mom was Italian as they come and that is  _ not— _ ” 

“Oh! Peter,” May cuts in, spinning around to face him. She must have some kind of—spidey-sense, or something—

_ No, _ Peter thinks,  _ no. If she did she would've known. About Travis, about—everything.  _

So, no spidey-sense. 

She always seems to notice Peter, though. More than anyone else does, anyway, and that's something. 

“Hey, honey,” she says, and then pauses, and the look on her face is… lost. Really lost. 

“Hey, Aunt May,” Peter says, quietly as he can, voice a little hoarse. 

There's silence, and sizzling, and sounds of shuffling, and Tony says, “May, pasta's sticking,” and she breathes out an  _ oh _ and turns to stir the pot. 

“Now I dunno about your fettucine there, but my alfredo sauce is looking great,” Tony says, and Peter knows immediately what he is doing. “This is gonna be good. Gonna be excellent, actually. We can sit down like a real family. Not like real  _ Italians, _ we don't have the  _ time _ for a 29 course meal, let alone the ingredients, but a real family, now that we can do—I can even call Pepper in here, she's off today—she likes pasta, you know that? Can't exactly get engaged to a pasta-hating lady, that marriage would not work at all—” 

Spoken to fill the silence like the mindless chatter it is. 

Peter folds his arms and puts his head down, breathing in the smell of pasta and cheese. And— 

It's okay. He's okay. They're okay. 

 

* * *

 

 

He goes back to school on Monday, and sort of just… picks himself up. And keeps going, as though nothing has changed. Because that's what you do. Even if his mind is stuck on replay, the world turns; the broken eight-year-old stuck inside him will stay that way. Broken, and stuck, because Peter has a life to live, and colleges to get into, and he can't afford to stop. 

 

* * *

 

 

He has to get used to the idea of being safe. 

(He might be getting used to it for awhile. 

Is he ever really safe? He hasn't been, not since Ben. Not since he was—eight years old, just about. 

How do you get used to that? Something you always should've had, really, and maybe once upon a time you did, but at this point it's been gone for so long it doesn't even feel like yours anymore.

How do you get used to that?) 

He  _ is _ safe, Tony and May keep telling him, and he kinda believes it, too—living in the tower, because he doesn't want to go back, and for now, May won't force him; spending his time under FRIDAY's close watch and swinging to school and back or riding with Happy. He's safe, but his mind and body don't believe it. 

And in the worst moments, the middle-of-the-night moments, it's so, so easy to forget. 

He startles into consciousness, stiff and trembling, his breath frozen in his chest— 

As his mind shapes his awareness, he forgets most of the details. Travis's eyes, for one thing, were in the dream, and Peter still feels the hands on him, grabbing his arm, digging into him, and the— 

_ No, no wait—  _

_ I'm sorry—  _

Peter's heart beats fast, too fast, and he can't make himself move. He's not breathing, he can't breathe, he can't. It's dark and Travis is out there, he's  _ out there, _ just like he always is. 

_ No I didn't mean—  _

_ Mouth shut—  _

_ Some fucking respect—  _

When Peter finally moves, it's oh so slowly, with terror clawing into his heart. He pulls the blankets tighter around him and curls up into the smallest ball he can. 

His eyes squeeze shut. 

_ Fall asleep, fall asleep, fall asleep, _ he wills himself. 

_ It's not real, _ some faraway part of him cries, but Peter doesn't know what to believe anymore. 

 

* * *

 

 

“You zoning out on me?” 

Peter stares out the window with glazed eyes. 

“Peter?” 

Fingers snap. He startles. 

“Shit. Sorry, kid.” 

Happy twists in the front seat, turns to face him, looking more contrite than Peter's used to. 

“S'fine,” he mumbles, but Happy shakes his head. 

“It isn't fine, kid. None of this is—is fine. You know that, right? You know it's not okay, what—what he did?” 

“I—yeah.” Peter blinks. Nods. Happy squints at him, and then—seemingly satisfied—he finally turns back to face the road. 

It's a lie, but it'll make Happy feel better. So it's fine. 

He doesn't deserve people worrying about him. He doesn't need to be that kind of burden. 

 

* * *

 

 

All day the nightmare tugs at his thoughts. 

He doesn't even remember it, but it sits under his skin. 

In the middle of chem, Betty claps loudly in front of Jason's face to wake him up, and Peter, from across the room, flinches hard. 

That's—that's ridiculous. 

He can't even handle the sound of someone  _ clapping their hands.  _

He almost laughs when he thinks about it, and then he almost cries, and during lunch he hides in the bathroom and he really does cry. Because he's  _ Spider-Man, _ and here he is flinching when Betty Brant  _ claps her hands.  _

 

* * *

 

 

Ned hugs him after school that day, but get this—he asks Peter's permission first. 

“I—okay,” Peter says, blinking. “Sure, man.” 

And they hug, except Peter doesn't hug back very hard because at the moment he's a little bewildered. 

But it's a good kind of bewildered. Or something. Peter's chest is all warm inside, now, because Ned... actually asked. Because his back still stings, and he's still a little shaky from the nightmare last night, and Ned doesn't know any of that, but he still asked. And if Peter had said  _ no _ —and this, this is the crazy part, right here—if Peter said  _ no _ he knows Ned would've gone with it. Would've offered a fist bump or a wave instead, and then turned to head home. 

And it's— 

Well. Peter doesn't know what to think of it. 

And whatever part of him was angry with Ned—for calling Mr. Stark, for throwing off the cautious balance he'd kept for so long—vanishes in that instant. 

There are a few things that have just really sucked lately, and a few things that, mentally, Peter's struggling with.  

But some things never change. He loves Tony, he loves May, and he loves Ned; he loves his family and the people of Queens with every fiber of his being. 

 

* * *

 

 

Except things don't get easier. 

He has another nightmare. 

Ben's in this one. 

Peter wakes up crying—his fingernails come away bloody from his arms, and he's shaking hard and it's dark and he's scared, he's scared, please— 

“Kid?” 

No. No no no no— 

Peter's back hits the wall. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Uncle Ben—please, please don't—” 

“Kid, hey, c'mon—” 

A hand touches his arm and Peter's eyes fly open and brown irises meet brown. 

Tony is talking, murmuring things, but Peter can't make sense of any of it. 

“Mis'r St'rk,” he chokes out. 

“The one and only. Mr. Stark, here to serve your every need.” The hand on his arm rubs gently, and Peter's muscles don't know how to relax, but it's—okay. This is okay. He's okay. 

“You're safe,” Tony says. “It was just a dream, you're here in the tower, you're okay.” 

Peter gasps for air, and then the relief finally hits him, and he sobs. 

_ A dream. Just a dream. It's over. It's over. He's not here.  _

_ He's not here.  _

_ He's not here.  _

His chest shudders as he breathes. 

_ You're safe.  _

Except Peter sees in Tony's eyes that something's more wrong than he realizes-- and then he processes what he just said, and his stomach drops to the floor. 

_Uncle Ben, please don't--_

The edges of Peter's vision go gray with panic. Because Tony might've known about Travis, but nobody,  _nobody_ knows about Ben. 

 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you all have left some incredible comments that just... blow me away. every time. I love you all so much 
> 
> also I feel like I should mention that?? since I know a lot of you are also writers?? if you've got a fic you want me to read I'd absolutely love to, so don't be afraid to ask. IN 👏 THIS 👏 HOUSE 👏 WE 👏 WELCOME 👏 SHAMELESS 👏 SELF 👏 PROMOTION 👏 
> 
> thank you guys so much for reading <333 stay safe my buddies


	5. I found peace (in your violence)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good morning I have returned,,, this chapter kicked my ass 
> 
> what am I saying it's,,,, not even morning 
> 
> I don't know 
> 
> I use commas extensively and incorrectly,, in case,,,, you hadn't noticed,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, 
> 
> anyway yes shit goes down in this chapter and I'm an emotional wreck :D 
> 
> without this fic I think I'd actually explode 
> 
> spontaneous combustion reaction 
> 
> oxygen + organic compound -> water + carbon dioxide 
> 
> personal trauma -> blowing shit up 
> 
> ANYWAY here I am projecting my problems onto Peter and if YOU are also projecting your problems onto Peter,,, bc you have similar problems,,,,, well this shit fucking SUCKS and I hope you're able to find the kind of comfort in this fic that I do. and I hope you're safe now. and if you are not. do your best. keep pushing. you never know if someone will be able to help you. don't stay quiet because you think no one will save you, and if you think you deserve it... you're wrong. nobody deserves this. not even you. 
> 
> IT'S CALLED ABUSE AND IT MAKES ME FEEL SICK TO EVEN TYPE THE WORD OUT BUT LET'S CALL IT WHAT IT IS BECAUSE THIS ISN'T SOMETHING THAT GETS BETTER WHEN WE IGNORE IT

 

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. 

 

. 

 

Once upon a time, Peter was small, and happier, really. Both his parents were alive, and he lived like a candle no one could put out, Mary shielding him with her own body when anyone tried. Ben and May were happier, then, too. 

Before Peter showed up and broke everything— 

Before CPS thrust him into their temporary care, before Ben's misplaced conviction to adopt him, cemented by grief and guilt— 

Before any of that, Ben and May were happier. 

And it could've been something good, if a little broken. They could've been a real family, maybe, if Peter could show some fucking respect, could keep his mouth shut because  _ no one gives a rat's ass what you think, Peter, _ could stay out of their way and clean up after himself and  _ respect, _ it always came back to that, show some respect for fucking  _ once— _

The point is. 

Peter was happy, once. And then everything fell apart, and Ben made it altogether too clear that he and May would rather he’d never showed up in their lives at all. 

 

* * *

 

 

Except on the days he didn't? 

The days he said none of that— 

The days that always hurt the most. 

When Ben would hug Peter and ruffle his hair and tell him what a good kid he was, how smart, how well-mannered. When he'd take him out for ice cream or down to the park. 

The good days. 

Peter was left reeling, every time. Hell, he's sixteen now and still left reeling, still unable to reconcile Ben's charming smile with the look in his eyes when he got angry. 

 

* * *

 

 

Ben's mood fluctuated, cycled from angry to loving and back again, inconsistently enough that Peter learned never to expect what was next. He got used to living on his toes. 

Ben's mood fluctuated, and with it, so did Peter's identity. And when Ben wasn't there to tell him, he could never figure out who he really was. 

The miserable brat, the disrespectful little shit—

Or Ben's pride and joy, so smart, so strong, so hardworking; the bright little kid Ben loved so much? 

 

* * *

 

 

He still feels the hand grabbing his face, the fingers around his jaw— 

He  _ feels _ it, the afterimage of pain on his skin, like Ben's there. Like it wasn't just a dream. Like there were hands on him, even though here— 

Here, he's supposed to be safe. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Pete,” Tony says, “please. Talk to me, kid.” 

Peter shuffles a little closer. 

He's not backed against the wall anymore, but he and Tony are still on opposite ends of the bed. For the moment, that's as close as Peter is going to get. 

“Kid, hey,” Tony says softly. “I'm not gonna hurt you. I promise.” 

Peter hesitates, then nods. He  _ knows _ Tony won't hurt him, it's just… 

Hard not to be scared. 

Tony takes a deep breath. “Was—was the dream about your uncle?” 

Tony knows. He's  _ Tony Stark, _ he's smart, okay, he's a fucking genius—he knows. He knows what the frantic begging meant, what Ben must have done for Peter to speak his name with that kind of fear. But he's still so careful in the way he asks, like he's talking down a wounded animal. 

Peter squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. 

“Was he—hurting you? In the dream?” Tony asks next, and Peter. Is. Going. To. Throw. Up. 

He can't trust himself to speak, so he keeps his eyes closed tight and nods. 

“Did he ever really—” Tony breaks off, and Peter wonders how hard it is, to get those kinds of words out. To be the one on the outside, looking in through the glass. 

“He did,” Tony says, shaking his head and looking broken. “Didn't he?” 

Peter's ears are ringing. 

He nods again. 

“Since I was eight,” he whispers, and Tony breathes out a quiet “oh, Peter,” and when he reaches out like he wants to hold him— 

Peter closes the gap, and he trusts Tony for long enough to sink into his embrace. 

 

* * *

 

 

They don't sleep that night. 

Peter lets Mr. Stark hold him, and he listens as his mentor tells stories into the darkness. 

Stories about Howard and Maria and Edwin Jarvis; about his father, the monster lurking in the study each night; about his mother, who was his guardian angel until the day she wasn't anymore. 

About Jarvis, who loved him like his own and never gave up on bratty little Anthony Stark. 

And after minutes and minutes of silence, Peter breathes in deep and tells his own stories. 

He talks about Ben. About the belt, about Ben's eyes, and how he never felt safe. 

He talks about Skip. About how he  _ tried _ to ask for help, and all he got for it was a new kind of trauma. 

And he talks about Travis, about how, by that point, Peter had kind of just accepted that this was something he deserved. 

And Tony holds him tighter and kisses his hair and promises he won't ever, ever let anyone hurt him like that again. 

_ Maybe, _ Peter thinks, distantly,  _ maybe this is how it was always supposed to be.  _

A kid gets hurt and cries for help, and there are people there to save him. 

 

* * *

 

 

By the time the sun comes up, Peter's finally nodded off. Tony gets up and stretches as rays of light pour through the window, mumbling to FRIDAY to close the curtains. 

He lays Peter down gently, covers him with the blanket, and moves to leave when— 

Peter's hand clutches his sleeve. 

“Don't go,” the kid begs. 

Tony swallows. 

_ God, _ what has he done to deserve this kind of love? 

“Not going anywhere, kid,” he says, and sits on the bed beside Peter and runs his fingers through the boy's hair. Gently, the way a father might. 

Peter sighs and drifts away again, and— 

It's okay. 

They're okay. 

 

* * *

 

 

So the story goes. 

 

* * *

 

 

“So you live with Mr. Stark now? Like all the time?” Ned whispers. 

“Like all the time,” Peter confirms. “May's going to move back to the apartment eventually, I think, but…” 

He trails off, shrugging helplessly. 

“You don't want to?” Ned asks. 

Peter hesitates. “Not really,” he admits. “I guess—I feel safer. With Mr. Stark. At the tower and everything. I don't know, it's dumb—” 

Ned's brow furrows. “It's not dumb, Peter.” 

Peter shrugs again. 

(In moments like these, he doesn't feel like Spider-Man.) 

 

* * *

 

 

Peter makes so many more mistakes. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Kid, get that suit off—it's soaking wet, you're going to catch your death—” 

“You sound like May.” 

“Well, good. That must mean I'm right.” Tony chucks a towel at Peter. “Now take off the suit and dry your hair. You're not hurt, are you? God, what made you think patrolling in a downpour was a good idea—” 

“Crime doesn't stop just because it's raining, Mr. Stark.” 

“Spider-Man, on the other hand,  _ does _ stop, because his whole schtick relies  _ almost solely on his adhesive abilities _ —” 

“And no. I'm not hurt. I'm still sticky when it rains. I'm  _ fine. _ ” 

Tony rolls his eyes. “FRI, is he hurt?” 

“No, boss,” FRIDAY says, “aside from injuries previously sustained under the care of—” 

Peter flinches. Tony flinches. “Yeah, FRI, aside from that,” Tony snaps. 

There's a heavy pause. Peter sighs, hits the button of his suit, and starts to peel it off his skin. 

“You know, you could change in your room,” Tony says dryly. Peter shrugs. 

“No one else has access to the lab besides the two of us, right?” he says, shaking the suit off and running the towel through his hair. “And I've got extra clothes in here anyway.” 

(And he doesn't really want to leave, because Tony's here, and the lab is safe. The few things Peter's got that are still safe, he holds onto. Tony and his private lab are two of those things.) 

“Mmhmm,” Tony mumbles, already turning back to his work. “You do you, kid.” 

Some of the bruises are healing up, Peter muses, pulling on a pair of jeans. It's probably something to do with the fact that he's eating and sleeping again, almost to the point of being actually healthy. His strength is already back to where it should be, and his healing's slowly catching up, too. 

“Hey, Mr. Stark?” He's tugging his shirt over his torso, about to turn around to face his mentor, when just behind him something crashes. 

Peter whirls around, eyes wide. Mr. Stark is staring like he's just seen a ghost. 

“Mr. Stark? What's the matter?” Peter steps back, unsure what to do, but Tony shakes his head. 

“ _ Shit, _ kid,” he says, voice cracking. “Your—your back. I know you told me already, but—” He shakes his head again. “He did that?” 

_ Oh, _ Peter thinks, ears buzzing.  _ The scars. From the belt.  _

Tony hadn't seen those yet. 

Right. 

“Um.” Peter hesitates. “Yeah, he… yeah.” 

He stands, shifting from foot to foot, heart beating faster. (Talking about it makes his stomach sick.) 

Tony's face falls into his hands. He takes a deep, shuddering breath.  _ I'm sorry, _ Peter thinks, even as the child in him cries for comfort. 

“Alright,” Tony mumbles. “Well. You need some food, and I need some coffee.” 

Peter's brow furrows. “Mr. Stark, it's  _ seven at night—” _

“Exactly. Ten hours until the sun comes up, and I have to get through them all somehow—” 

Peter won't admit it but he's trying not to laugh. “Mr.  _ Stark—”  _

And just like that, they fall back into normality. 

For the rest of that night, Peter pretends he doesn't see the pain in Mr. Stark's eyes—the regret, the uncertainty that flickers to life when he thinks Peter isn't looking. 

 

* * *

 

 

Long after Peter's gone to bed, Tony sits awake. 

That kid trusted Iron Man to look out for him. To protect him. 

And those scars… 

Peter must have cried when that man did that to him. No kid gets beat with a belt and told they deserve it and makes it through without any tears. 

He cried, and Tony didn't hear him. He wasn't there. Hell, the kid probably showed up at school the next day, at the Tower, and nobody fucking noticed. Tony didn't have a fucking  _ clue, _ and  _ fuck, _ he should've. 

But the kid just kept on smiling. 

Like it was nothing, like he could take it. Like he should have to take it. 

Figures, if it'd been happening since Peter was eight. 

God. Little eight-year-old Peter, terrified of going home. 

Tony rubs a hand over his face. That boy deserves the world, and instead he got only the worst of it. He's got so much ahead of him and Ben and Skip and Travis just thought they could  _ take _ that. 

“Oh, kid,” Tony mutters. “How am I gonna fix this?” 

 

* * *

 

The story goes on, and seems to dawdle. If there's a fix, it won't be an easy one. There are ups and downs and too many backtracks to count, and at some point Tony realizes that it's been three decades and he still can't always grapple with what Howard did to him—what Maria turned a blind eye to. 

He's in it for the long haul. 

(Peter never deserved this.) 

 

* * *

 

 

“May,” Tony says over the phone the next day, “Peter wants to have a… a conversation with you. An important one.” 

Peter sits on the old couch, knees pulled into his chest, curled in on himself as tightly as he can. 

“At the Tower. Yeah, it's not a good one. He said he'll feel safer telling you if he's here… uh-huh. Okay.” 

Peter glances up at Tony's pinched expression, the way his left arm is trembling slightly. 

None of them want to have this conversation, do they? 

 

* * *

 

 

“Aunt May,” Peter says, taking in a deep breath. “I know you… I know you're upset that I never told you. About—about Travis.” 

She bites her lip and nods. “I just… I wish you knew you could trust me with that, baby. I—” 

“But there's a, a reason,” Peter continues, eyes squeezed shut, and May falls silent. 

There's thunder roaring in Peter's ears. It's silent but deafening, and he can't do this. He can't do this. He can't  _ do _ this— 

“Ben… did the same thing,” he breathes out. “Since I was eight. He, um, hurt me. And Skip. I—you remember Skip?” He laughs nervously. “Um, yeah. I tried to—to tell him. About Ben. Because I realized it wasn't okay, and Skip—” 

Peter swallows thickly. He can't do this. He can't. 

He flicks his eyes up to Tony in desperation, searching for help. 

_ I can't say it, Mr. Stark.  _

_ Please.  _

Tony clears his throat. 

“Skip began sexually assaulting Peter,” he says softly, “and he continued to do so for several months, up until he moved out of town.” 

May looks like she's struggling to breathe. 

“I'm sorry,” Peter says, tears rolling down his face, “I'm sorry, May—” 

“Oh, Peter.” She takes him into her arms, and Peter clutches her tighter than he ever has. “Oh,  _ baby."  _

 

* * *

 

 

It's funny, that at first Peter was Ben's child, really. 

That he was Mary and Richard's, and then nobody's, a poor little orphan, and Ben insisted they take him rather than letting him be swept into the system—and May's reluctant agreement was all he was looking for. 

And Ben did all the dad things, and May tried her best. And eventually she figured it out, got a hang of this whole parenting thing, and then she realized one day that she  _ loved  _ Peter—and god, did she—that she'd do anything, anything for this child. 

And Ben died, and suddenly Peter was all hers. 

And now it's such a strange kind of pain. She is mourning Ben for the second time: mourning his perfect memory and her own naivety; that she really failed to see how he was hurting her baby will haunt her for the rest of her life. 

Peter was hers  _ because _ he was Ben's, she learned to love him  _ because _ she loved Ben, and all along Ben—smiling, shining, charismatic Ben, the man who had all this time bound her to Peter—was a liar, a demon behind closed doors. 

It's funny, May thinks, how one little secret can break everything. 

 

* * *

 

 

Peter keeps getting things wrong, and life goes on. 

He just— 

Screws up. 

A lot. 

He forgets himself, makes snarky comments, thoughtless corrections. He has panic attacks, he doesn't always look adults in the eye, he gets frustrated and patrols too late and sometimes even has the audacity to  _ disagree with Mr. Stark.  _

And each time he realizes a moment too late what he's just done— 

And he goes rigid, squeezing his eyes shut, preparing for the worst. 

But most often, all that comes is a quiet “it's fine, Pete,” or a “hey, you might be right.” And then they just—move along. Like nothing's wrong. 

But everything's wrong, and Peter just doesn't get it. 

“Mr. Stark, it's  _ not _ fine,” he stresses one night, tears in his eyes because he's scared and he's confused and he's so tired of playing these games. 

Mr. Stark frowns. “What do you mean, kid?” 

“I just—I know I'm being rude, and—and disrespectful, and a brat—” and so many other things, words he doesn't think Mr. Stark will appreciate him repeating— “and you keep saying it's fine, but if you're gonna hit me or something why don't you just do it already?” 

He doesn't know what he's saying anymore. Hell, he doesn't even know what he's thinking. 

But Ben used to do this, too. He'd say it was all fine, water under the bridge— 

And then one day he'd slip into a bad mood, he'd get drunk, and suddenly all Peter's sins came back to light. And Peter  _ can't _ do that same dance with Mr. Stark. 

So when Tony's expression shifts, when he stands up and steps forward, Peter doesn't flinch back. 

He bows his head and curls his arms around his torso, and he waits for a fist in his hair, for a hand grabbing his face, for the  _ clink _ of the belt buckle, because yeah, he knows he deserves it this time. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Peter.” 

 

* * *

 

 

“Peter. Hey.” 

 

* * *

 

 

“Kid. Open your eyes. Please.” 

Peter does, and Mr. Stark is kneeling in front of him, his hands on Peter's shoulders. 

_ (Even if it shakes him to the core, he looks Mr. Stark in the eye, because he knows what happens if he doesn't.)  _

But the look in Mr. Stark's eyes is soft. 

Uncharacteristically so. 

“I'm never going to hit you, Peter,” he says. “I don't need you to worship the ground I walk on and agree with my every whim. That might've been Ben's idea of respect, and it might've been Howard's, but it isn't mine.” 

And Peter shudders with the effort of holding back tears, because on some level, he knows Mr. Stark is right, and it's messed up to think he deserves to be hurt— 

But he just can't make himself  _ get it.  _

“I'm sorry,” Peter whispers, but he sees Mr. Stark's heart break, and damn it, that was the wrong thing to say. 

“I'm _sorry,_ ” he tries again, voice cracking, not knowing what else to do 

because everything is broken. 

 

. 

 

. 

 

. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a... lot... happened... this chapter 
> 
> also lol is it just me or is there a pattern with abusive parents having 100% perfect memory when it comes to every fucking thing you've done wrong 
> 
> like 
> 
> my dad won't remember what he had for lunch yesterday but he WILL remember to the EXACT hour minute and second what I was doing three months ago when I should've been doing xyz instead and how it's a perfect example of how I'm destroying this family 
> 
> anyway 
> 
> love you all <3 please let me know what you think!! reading and responding to comments is one of my favorite things in the world <333


	6. you won't go lonely here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BAAAAACK 
> 
> sorry it's been so long. a lot went down these last two months. you know how the disclaimer says i am not a victim of sexual assualt? yeah that's... yeah i'll have to edit that because it's no longer true um 
> 
> anyway!! have another chapter of me projecting!! i hope you guys like the chapter, this one is decidedly fluffier especially toward the end <3

. 

 

. 

 

. 

 

“Peter,” Mr. Stark mutters, “no one is just—allowed to hurt you. Even if you were a brat—and you're not—it wouldn't be okay. Hitting kids is—very much not okay, actually.”  

Peter vaguely recognizes the song playing. Mr. Stark has been playing this one a lot recently. They have wildly different music preferences, but just as Mr. Stark has grown fond of the pop and indie music Peter shows him, Peter’s developed a taste for the rock Mr. Stark always plays in the lab.

“Okay,” he says, because it sounds like the right answer.

Mr. Stark rubs a hand over his back—then draws it back when Peter tenses. “Shit. Sorry, kid.”

His hand finds its way to Peter's hair, instead, threading fingers through soft brown curls. Peter sighs.

They sit like that for awhile.

 

* * *

 

Peter feels Skip's hands all over him and spends forty minutes in the shower trying to _scrub him off._

“Oh, kid,” Tony breathes an hour later, wincing at the red marks covering Peter's skin, the rawness of his arms. “Pete. What…”

“It'll heal,” Peter says, numb, and Tony just looks so lost for words.

 

* * *

 

He claws his arms up in his sleep. It's getting old, waking up with bloody fingernails, and he’s tried every trick in the book to stave off the nightmares. He doesn't know how to—how to be safe, after all this time, he doesn't get it, it doesn't make sense, he just wants—

He doesn't know what he wants.

 

* * *

 

He listens to music. Some people sing of safety, and their lyrics sound like promises, which Peter appreciates for the moments of comfort they grant.

 

* * *

  

_it’ll all be better in the morning_

_cause while you sleep, I’ll build a wall_

 

* * *

 

There’s this one he likes—it starts out slow, a little repetitive, but the violin part is nice. And when he’s up too late and lost in his head, holding onto even the most fleeting comforts, then it’s nice to let himself believe that—

That, yeah. It really will be better in the morning.

 

* * *

 

The dream starts out innocuous enough.

May is driving, Ben in the passenger seat. Peter’s in the back, little fingers flicking across May’s phone, playing Candy Crush or whatever the newest flashy app is—

 _“How much longer?”_ he complains.

 _“Just an hour,”_ May says, and Peter groans, throwing his head back.

 _“An hour,”_ he whines. _“That’s forever.”_

Time doesn’t really have a place in dreams. Maybe forever passes or maybe it’s a moment. The scenery flies by in glorious technicolor. But then the dream shifts, and Ben is twisting to face the backseat, and there are—there are—

Fingers around his neck, gripping just under his jaw, not choking him but _holding_ him. Keeping him there, a promise of worse to come if he makes the wrong move. Peter’s breath catches and there are tears in his eyes and he’s shaking his head, _no, no, no,_ and May is in the driver’s seat and she doesn’t _see_ how does she not _see?_ Why isn’t she _saving him?_

Ben slams Peter up against the roof of the car, and Peter’s hands are wrapped around Ben’s fingers, but he can’t do anything. He can’t do _anything._ And in all his life he’s never felt smaller.

 

* * *

 

Peter jerks awake, sixteen and superhuman, still feeling so small, still grabbing at his throat.

He can feel Ben’s fingers there, just under his jaw, can feel the slam of his back against—the wall, the floor, his bedroom door, the kitchen cabinet, the roof of the car—

He gasps for air. He isn’t choking, Ben didn’t choke him—he never did that—but Peter can’t breathe—

He doesn’t know how it happens, but he ends up half-crawling across the floor, scrambling through his dresser drawers and—

The mask slides over his face, and Peter finally starts crying.

 _“Hi, Peter,”_ Karen says, soft and kind. _“You seem to be experiencing a panic attack. Would you like me to count your breathing?”_

Desperately, Peter nods.

 

* * *

 

Eventually he manages to force some air into his lungs.

He doesn’t go back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

_I found peace in your violence…_

_I’ve been quiet for too long_

 

* * *

 

Peter flicks through the playlist. This one. This one might be—the best song for this. He was quiet, he was quiet _forever,_ he kept all their fucking secrets, kept his head down and his mouth shut.

And he’s so tired of it.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t want to keep quiet, but he doesn’t want to talk about it, either. He doesn’t want to be everyone’s punching bag anymore, but he doesn’t know how to be anything else, and Mr. Stark wants to know what he wants and how to help him, but not even Peter knows the answer to those questions.

 

* * *

 

(And underneath it all, what he’s more scared of than anything:

That this is nothing. That he’s making a big deal out of—nothing at all. That he’s going to come crying to Mr. Stark, finally asking for the comfort he so desperately craves, and his hero will look at him like a baby for not being able to take a punch and a few cruel words.)

 

* * *

 

Then Ned and MJ come over.

 

* * *

 

“You know,” MJ says, quirking an eyebrow, “I always figured I was lucky.”

Peter looks up. Ned’s fingers slot against his like puzzle pieces. MJ’s toes dangle off Peter’s bed, and textbooks and homework and Legos are scattered everywhere. This has decidedly become a good day.

“Yeah?” he says. Ned doesn’t say anything, just keeps clicking Legos into place. (With one hand, since the other is holding Peter’s.)

“Yeah,” MJ says. “Because—sure, my dad hit me, but it could be worse, right? Some kids die, y’know, from child abuse. There’s child labor in some countries and shit. I always told myself I was lucky. Hated myself for getting upset over it.”

Peter nods and flicks a green stud over to Ned, who adds it to the Millenium Falcon, completing their third row of Christmas lights.

“But—if you get hit, and someone else gets hit twice as hard, that doesn’t mean yours didn’t hurt.” She meets his eyes, and as usual, there’s something in her expression Peter can’t figure out. “Everyone has problems. But you’re still allowed to be upset over yours—Ned why the _fuck_ are you covering the Millenium Falcon in tiny Lego Christmas lights.”

“It’s festive!” Ned defends.

“It’s _April,_ ” MJ says.

“And?”

Peter grins as they bicker back and forth.

He turns MJ's words over in his head. She's… right, now that he thinks about it. He's spent so long trying to convince himself that it's no big deal, when really—

It _is._

And it _sucks._

And—maybe it really is allowed to hurt.

He glances back at Ned and MJ, and his smile softens. He can’t pretend he isn’t lucky in some ways. He might not have gotten the best parents—but the people he’s got, he wouldn’t trade for anything else in the world.

 

* * *

 

"Hey, Mr. Stark!" Peter says, dropping from the ceiling. Mr. Stark jerks so hard he almost spills his coffee.

"Kid," he wheezes. "What the—"

"I had an idea—for Stark Industries! Well, for StarkPhones, actually—and I guess it'd be more accurate to say Ned and I had the idea, both of us, together, y'know—but Mr. Stark, this _idea—_ "

"Slow down, Pete." Mr. Stark reaches out and tentatively rests a hand on Peter's arm.

Peter doesn’t flinch.

“I am _incapable_ of slowing down. Anyway, so this—look, look, we were doing electrochemistry, and I mean, the AP Chem teacher is great and all, but Ned and I got all this stuff years ago, so we weren’t really paying attention to the lecture, and instead we were working on—this kind of battery, see, nobody uses it in mobile devices because they can’t get it that small and still that efficient, but—look, Mr. Stark, look!”

“ _Okay,_ kid, I’m looking,” Tony mutters, but he’s only feigning annoyance. Something in his chest warms at the sight of Peter (literally) bouncing off the walls, waving around up a tattered notebook, designs scribbled margin to margin in a mess of blue and black ink, smiling for all the world as though he really is okay.

God. He looks like a kid.

And Tony could cry, because Peter’s only got a few years left for that. Because he had so many years of his childhood stripped, reduced to buried trauma and flashes that crop up only in nightmares.

But here he is, acting like he’s six instead of sixteen.

And Tony knows that if anyone deserves a second chance at happiness, it’s Peter Parker.

 

* * *

 

That Thursday, they’re both running late.

Peter’s still webbing his way from the Tower to school most days, only once in awhile relying on Happy to chauffeur him around. (He has gotten much better at inconspicuous costume changes, if only because an exasperated Tony sat him down and gave him a long talk about Things Not To Do If You Want To Maintain A Secret Identity, and Come On, Parker, Some Of This Should Be Common Sense.)

But anyway, today Peter’s alarm _didn’t go off, for some godforsaken reason,_ and damn it, he has AP Lang first period and they have a timed essay today and he needs an A in that stupid class—

And Tony has a business meeting, or something or other, Pepper mentioned it last night over dinner, and apparently he _has_ to go to this one, and he has to be on time, and _no, Tony, on time doesn’t mean thirty minutes late instead of the usual hour and a half, it means actually on time for once in his life and is that really so hard to ask—_

So they’re both a little frenzied in their last-minute dashes to get ready, though Tony apparently has plenty of time to chide Peter for his unhealthy habits and insist that he eat something. While skipping his own breakfast. Unfair.

“Do as I say, not as I do,” Tony mutters when Peter complains about it.

Peter responds by complaining further.

“Food is gross,” he mumbles, knowing Tony is only half-listening, if he’s listening at all. “It’s—so gross. Really gross. I hate it. Also the sheer hypocrisy of the situation—that is gross.”

(Other things are also gross—like Peter, himself—like his skin and the skin that’s been on his—like his mind and his eyes and his ears and all the dirty broken pieces of him—and all the things he can’t stop thinking about, all the memories that make him feel sick, that turn something as simple as eating breakfast into a daunting task.)

He keeps muttering complaints to procrastinate taking another bite of his apple, and some part of his mind is screaming at him that complaining this much is a Bad Idea and will only lead to—things he doesn’t want to think about. But it’s so easy to complain about something so little, to let his guard down and maybe just—act like a teenager, or whatever, for once in his life.

Because Mr. Stark is safe.

Because he keeps telling Peter that he’s allowed to be a kid, and okay, maybe today Peter can believe him.

And then Peter swivels on his heel, and Mr. Stark is thundering down the stairs with a belt in his hand.

 

_No._

 

_nonononono_

 

_i’m sorry i’m sorry wait i didn’t mean it wait please don’t WAIT_

 

_NO_

 

_I’M SORRY_

 

Some part of Peter registers Tony’s hands sliding the belt through the loops, fastening it around his waist—putting it on, using it as an _article of clothing,_ like most non-psychopaths do, and not as a _weapon for beating a kid._

But his heart is still thundering in his chest and his breathing is still fast and there’s not really much air going into his lungs and the expression on Tony’s face—could almost be mistaken for anger—is he angry? What did Peter do oh god he needs to apologize but he doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to be apologizing _for—_

In slow motion, Tony finishes fastening the belt, tucks his shirt in, and moves on to straighten his tie.

Peter squeezes his eyes shut and replays a thousand images he doesn’t want to ever think about again—

Ben and Travis and Skip and Tony, footsteps heavy on the stairs, belt in hand, what did he do this time, he knows he knows it’s his fault god he’s _sorry—_

“Peter?”

He flinches back. Violently. He hears a muttered curse and then Tony’s footsteps drawing closer—softer, now, than they were on the stairs. Hesitant—like he’s approaching a wounded animal—not hard and pounding like he’s late for a meeting. Or like he’s angry.

No. The footsteps are soft. Tony’s voice, when he says Peter’s name again, is soft.

“Pete, hey.”

_He’s not angry._

_He’s not angry._

“H-hey, Mr. Stark,” he breathes out, shaky. He doesn’t see Mr. Stark’s arm draw closer—his eyes are squeezed shut—but thanks to his sixth sense, he knows the shoulder pat is coming before it does.

He lets it come.

(Mr. Stark is not labeled by his spidey-sense as a threat.)

Peter doesn’t flinch back but rather melts into the touch, which Tony (correctly) interprets as permission for a full-blown hug.

When Mr. Stark pulls back, Peter’s opened his eyes. Brown eyes meet brown. “You ok, kid? Bad night? Did—I say something?”

Peter lets out another shaky breath.

“No,” he mumbles. “Just, uh—when you came. Down the stairs. With the belt, it—was dumb, sorry, but…”

He trails off. Shrugs.

He catches Tony’s grimace, only present for a moment. “Shit, kid,” he says. “I’m—sorry.” The apology comes out—stilted. Uncertain. Peter’s known Tony long enough now: his media persona is the one whose emotions never falter. The waver in his voice is what makes this real.

A few moments pass in which they don’t speak. (A feat for both of them.)

“I gotta make that meeting, kid,” Tony says. “Listen. You—if you’ve had a bad, uh—you can stay home from school, or—?”

“I’m not made of glass,” Peter says. There’s no bite behind the words. “I can go to school, you just—caught me off guard. That’s all.”

Tony looks away, takes a deep breath.

“I will never do that to you,” he says. “I won’t, swear on all that’s good and holy. Just—know that.”

Peter nods.

He realizes—with a shock that hits him like ice water—that for the first time, he actually believes the words.

Tony gives him a tight smile, one last shoulder squeeze.

“Now,” he says, “go make your old man proud and blow up Midtown Tech’s chem lab.”

Feeling lighter than he has in months, Peter laughs. 

 

. 

 

. 

 

. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one felt good 
> 
> if anyone wants my recovery playlist, cause a few of you showed interest,,, next chapter!! i will share it!! 
> 
> i love you ALL and your comments make me feel so amazing and warm and fuzzy, i do my best to respond to all of them so!! if you wanna talk!! hmu!! 
> 
> also i have a tumblr now @fourleafchloe

**Author's Note:**

>  **!! DISCLAIMER !!**
> 
> I am a survivor of childhood physical and psychological abuse. That's... kind of why this fic exists. Everything related to physical and psychological abuse in this fic is straight up me projecting. Peter's story isn't my story, but several elements are damn similar. That said, everyone handles trauma differently, and every situation is different, so this is by no means the "right" or "only" way to portray child abuse and trauma in writing. I'm also a sexual assault survivor, though I'm not a victim of sexual abuse. 
> 
> this one's for all the other survivors out there. 
> 
> ANYWAY. feedback of any kind makes me smile! your comments and kudos are what keep me writing, and often just knowing you're out there is what keeps me going in general. i'd love to chat on my tumblr, @fourleafchloe, and i'm always taking iron dad fic requests!! 
> 
> you are not alone. I love you all so so so much <3


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